> 


\ 


For  the  Love  of  Tonita 
& 

other  Tales  of  the   Mesas 


For  the  Love  of 
Tonita 

other  Tales  of  the  Mesas 

,  by. 

Charles  Flemin    Embree 


HERBERT    S.  STONE   fef   CO. 

CHICAGO  b9  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCVII 


COPYRIGHT,    MDCCCXCVI1,    BY 
HERBERTS.  STONE  ^COMPANY 


THE  COVER  WAS  DESIGNED 
BY    FERNAND    LUNGREN 


The  Contents 


iv-513161 


FOR    THE     LOVE    OF    TONITA  I 

A    COMPULSORY    DUEL  48 

THE    DRIVER    OF    THE    OCATE  7° 

AT    THE    PASSING    OF    SESCA  124 

THE    RACE  149 

HER    HOME    COMING  172 

HIS    TERRIFYING    NEMESIS  185 

COLD    FACTS    AT    THE    TAVERN  221 

THE    ABSENCE    OF    NARCISSO  234 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF 
TONITA 

¥ 

THE  sun  shone  on  the  mesas  far  to  the 
east  and  the  broad  valley  stretch 
ing  between  them,  on  the  little 
stream  that  sparkled  in  its  light,  on  the 
old  adobe  fort  with  its  surrounding  huts, 
and  on  the  three  mountains  far  to  the  left 
whence  the  stream  had  come.  The 
fort,  a  hollow  square  lacking  the  fourth 
side,  comprised  numerous  adobe  dwellings 
joined  into  continuous  walls ;  some  in 
ruins,  but  the  mere  suggestions  of  former 
houses,  with  the  adobes  fallen  in  heaps 
about  their  bases ;  and  some  still  habita 
ble.  The  stream,  scarcely  two  yards  in 
width,  ran  on  the  outer  side  of  the  west 
ern  wall,  and  beyond  it,  under  the  rise  of 
the  trail,  a  few  straggling  huts  stood  among 
low  willows. 

Out  of  the  largest  house  of  the  eastern 
wall,  its  door   facing  within   the    square, 


4   FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

that  shone  in  the  doorway,  and  faced 
Tonita.  Her  face  was  the  swarthy  one 
of  the  Mexican,  and  she  answered  the 
girl's  pure  Spanish  in  the  Mexican  dia 
lect.  She  puffed  a  little  at  her  cigarette, 
gave  a  grunt  of  disgust,  and  said: 

"  \Vhat  is  to  be  done  with  her?  I  have 
tried,  the  old  Don  has  tried,  Carlota  has 
tried.  Pah!  I  have  smoked  nine  cigar 
ettes  in  thinking  it  out,  and  it  is  not 
thought  out.  She  loves  you,  Tonita, 
more  than  us  all,  more  than  me,  her 
mother.  You  go.  Pah!  it  will  do  no 
good,  but  you  go." 

Noiselessly  Tonita  entered  the  next 
room,  the  only  other  one.  One  window 
let  in  meager  light.  There  were  two 
chairs,  and  a  bed  against  the  wall,  and  a 
rude  table  near  the  window.  A  rear  door 
open  gave  view  between  some  straggling 
willows,  across  the  plain,  lit  with  the  late 
afternoon  sun.  There  was  a  little  sob 
from  near  the  door  as  she  entered,  and  a 
bundle  of  white  upon  the  floor  quivered 
somewhat.  Tonita  closed  the  door  be 
hind  her. 

"  Ines?  "  she  said. 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA    5 

There  was  another  sob  from  the  bundle 
on  the  floor. 

"Why,  Ines,  —  my  blessed  Ines,"  said 
Tonita,  her  clear  voice  full  of  compassion, 
"  it  is  Tonita.  Look  at  me ;  talk  to  me!  " 

She  spoke  as  though  to  a  child  she 
loved.  She  stood  for  a  second  above  the 
bundle  on  the  floor,  then  suddenly  stooped 
beside  it,  half  kneeling.  Her  white  face 
seemed  whiter  in  the  half-light  of  the 
room,  and  her  eyes  as  black  as  the  shadows 
beneath  the  table  and  the  chairs.  She  put 
her  arms  about  the  bundle  of  white. 

u  You  will  come  —  for  me,  Ines?  " 

With  a  greater  sob  Ines  only  drew  her 
self  closer. 

"My  beautiful  Ines,  what  is  it  —  tell 
me!  Only  the  thing  Juan  said  to  you? 
It  was  nothing.  Juan  is  thoughtless,  he 
meant  nothing.  Come,  I  cannot  bear  for 
you  to  be  thus." 

"  O,  Tonita  —  it  is  not  that  alone!" 
The  words  were  mingled  with  many  sobs. 
"  Only — it  made  me  think  it  all  again, — 
all  that  has  made  me  wretched  so  many 
times.  And  now  when  I  wanted  to  for 
get  it, —  now,  of  all  times.  O,  Tonita, 


6   FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

Tonita!  why  was  I  not  like  you?  " 

"  I  have  tried  so  much,  Ines,"  said 
Tonita,  u  to  keep  you  from  thinking  so. 
There  is  no  need  to  say  it  all  again.  Is 
it  not  enough  that  I,  Tonita,  who  have 
always  called  you  sister,  tell  you  you  think 
wrongly?  It  is  enough  that  I  love  you, 
that  we  all  love  you,  that  to  us  you  are 
the  same." 

u  I  know,  I  know.  Only  —  for  him." 
Tonita  caught  her  breath  a  little,  and 
looked  at  the  willows  without,  and  for  a 
moment  said  nothing.  Then,  pityingly, 
again  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  black 
hair  against  her  arm. 

"  He  has  told  you — there  is  no  differ 
ence  to  him." 

"  But  after  a  time — not  now,  I  know. 
He  will  see  it  more  plainly.  Already  it 
seems  he  watches  you  and  Carlota,  and 
maybe  —  maybe  —  what  if  he  forget  me  ? 
Juan  says  lam  only  a  Mexican.  He  says 
Ramon  will  curse  in  me  the  Indian  blood. 
He  is  cruel,  and  points  me  out  my  dark 
face  and  the  hateful  straight  hair.  He 
says  that  I  want  to  marry  Ramon  because 
he  is  all  Spanish  ;  that  I  want  to  raise  my- 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA    7 

self  above  Juan  and  my  mother.  Oh!  I 
cannot  bear  it!  It  is  lies  —  lies  —  lies! 
Tonita,  you  know  —  you  know  that  it  is 
because  I  love  him;  that  I  loved  him  when 
first  he  came  and  said  he  was  your  cousin, 
when  first  we  went  down  the  stream  to 
gether —  there  where  the  verbenas  grew, 
and  the  sun  shone  on  the  rocks,  and  I 
pointed  out  the  mountains  to  him,  and 
sang.  You  know  it  was  like  this  ever 
since,  just  burning  me  up,  as  though  it 
will  kill  me;  that  I  cannot  sleep  for 
thinking  of  him;  that  I  cannot  eat,  nor 
talk,  nor  sing,  when  he  is  away;  that  I 
would  die  for  him  —  die  for  him!  " 

The  words  came  hot  and  passionately, 
and  the  form  trembled  against  Tonita's 
arm.  Ines  suddenly  threw  back  her  head, 
her  face  flushed,  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Tell  me!"  she  cried,  looking  into 
Tonita's  face;  "  is  it  so  plain?  Am  I  ter 
rible  with  it  ?  Oh  !  what  is  it  that  makes 
the  difference  so  ?  Is  it  this  that  I  feel  ? 
Is  it  the  heat  that  comes  all  over  me  and 
rushes  to  my  temples,  and  fills  my  brain, 
and  throbs,  throbs,  throbs,  till  I  must  cry 
out  ?  If  it  were  not  for  you  —  you  and 


8  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

him — I  feel  sometimes  it  would  show  it 
self  indeed  ;  that  I  could  terrify  Juan  with 
it  out  of  desperation,  prove  to  him  all  too 
well  that  he  is  right ;  that  I  cannot  get  the 
wild  blood  out.  But  for  you  and  him  I  am 
content.  I  feel  only  that  I  am  wicked  to 
be  unhappy.  Tonita,  I  am  enough  like 
you  ?  Say  I  am  !  " 

"  Ines  !  Ines  !  you  must  not,  must  not 
talk  so.  Why,  you  are  wrong  to  him  to 
doubt  it.  Let  yourself  be  once  at  rest. 
Do  not  listen  to  Juan.  Ramon  loves  you 
— he  has  told  you  so.  What  else  do  you 
want  ? " 

Ines  arose  and  stood  by  the  door  and 
looked  out,  and  Tonita  stood  beside  her. 
The  former  was  very  young,  scarcely  more 
than  seventeen.  Her  face  was  dark,  with 
a  rich  red  glow  in  the  delicate  skin,  a  com 
plexion  showing  more  of  the  blood  of 
Spain  than  the  wilder  element  she  hated. 
The  hair  hung  loose  about  her  shoulders, 
straight  and  black. 

u  When  I  think  of  that  alone,  it  is  all 
ri-ht,"  she  said.  "  Yet  Juan  says  he  will 
learn  the  difference  and  hate  me." 

Tonita  was  silent.     She  turned  her  face 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA   9 

to  the  shadow,  but  the  blood  was  in  her 
cheeks.  The  quick  instinct  of  the  Mexi 
can  seized  upon  the  silence  instantly. 

"  You  say  nothing  !  "  she  said,  catching 
Tonita's  hand.  "  It  is  not  true — say  it  is 
not  true  !  Oh  !  "  with  a  wild  motion  of 
her  hands  above  her  head,  "it  will  kill 
me  !  I  cannot  bear  it !  See — here  on  the 
table  is  the  knife  Juan  gave  me.  Some 
times  I  think  I  will  take  it  up  like  this  — 
see  !  If  he  did  not  love  me,  Tonita,  I 
would  kill  myself!  It  is  all  I  have  !  " 

"  Ines  !  "  cried  the  Spaniard,  seizing  the 
knife  and  placing  it  on  the  table  again. 
She  caught  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  held 
her  quiet  against  her  breast,  till  the  pas 
sionate  heart  found  vent  again  in  sobs. 
Still,  Tonita  looked  away  into  the  sun 
light.  There  was  the  shadow  of  sorrow  in 
her  eyes,  and  the  blood  still  throbbed  in 
her  cheeks.  The  head  upon  her  shoulder 
had  almost  ceased  to  tremble  with  the 
sobs,  when  she  at  last  spoke. 

"Listen,  Ines.  Juan  is  wrong,  that  he 
makes  you  think  of  it  always.  Ramon  has 
told  you  he  loves  you.  You  know  that 
you  love  him.  You  have  only  to  risk, 


io  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

then,  what  we  all  must  risk.  You  want 
to  show  yourself  equal  to  his  race.  This 
is  the  way  to  do  it :  Keep  down  this  hot, 
hot  blood  of  yours,  little  one,  —  for  my 
sake,  then,  if  for  nothing  else,  keep  it 
down.  Then  take  what  comes  to  you  in 
calmness.  Trust  it  all,  Ines.  Trust  to 
us  who  love  you.  The  blood  that  makes 
you  wild  and  restless,  that  is  what  we  love; 
that  is  what  makes  you  true;  that  is  what 
won  Ramon.  Do  not  be  ashamed  of  it, 
only  keep  it  in  bounds.  You  will  make 
him  love  you  the  more." 

u  You  are  better  to  me  than  is  any  one 
else,"  cried  the  girl.  "  I  owe  it  all  to  you. 
Since  first  your  padre  brought  us  here,  and 
made  me  come  and  be  your  friend,  and 
taught  me  so  much  I  never  knew  before  ; 
since  then  you  have  always  been  with  me, 
loved  me,  made  me  so  different.  Yes,  for 
you  I  will  try." 

"Then  come;  you  are  better  now.  It  is 
all  right.  Come  with  me.  This  last  supper 
we  want  you  with  us.  You  will  come?" 

"  Will  Ramon  be  there  ?  " 

"  He  has  come  already.  He  was  put 
ting  away  his  horse.  You  will  come  ?  " 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA   n 

"Yes — now  I  will  come." 

They  went  out  together  and  crossed 
the  stream.  When  they  had  gone,  the 
old  woman  in  the  next  room  arose  and 
went  to  the  front  door  and  grunted  a  little 
to  herself  and  puffed  at  her  cigarette. 

u  What  can  be  made  out  of  a  girl  like 
that?  "  she  said.  "  What  is  she  thinking 
about  all  the  time  ?  I  cannot  manage  her 
—  pah  !  my  talk  is  like  rain  to  the  ducks. 
What  is  in  Tonita  that  she  makes  her 
listen? " 

Juan  came  tramping  through  the  wil 
lows  with  a  gun  across  his  shoulder.  He 
had  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  stream  and 
watched  the  girls  disappear.  He  ap 
proached  his  mother  with  a  scowl  upon 
his  face.  His  features  were  coarse  and 
swarthy.  At  present  there  was  not  much 
above  the  brute  showing  in  them.  He  was 
thick-set  and  of  medium  height. 

"  That  is  it,"  he  said  gruffly,  in  Mexi 
can,  passing  his  mother  and  setting  down 
his  gun  in  the  corner.  "  That  is  it.  What 
can  you  make  out  of  her  but  that  she  is 
proud  ?  She  sits  all  day  and  pouts,  only 
that  they  may  come  and  coax  her  and  at 


12  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

last  almost  carry  her,  so  that  we  cannot 
say  she  left  us  of  her  own  accord." 

"  Be  still  !  "  cried  his  mother  sharply, 
her  wrinkled  face  screwed  into  an  expres 
sion  of  displeasure,  and  her  sharp  black 
eyes  turning  upon  him.  u  It  is  you  who 
make  trouble,  with  your  talk.  You  want 
your  old  mother  to  die  without  seeing  her 
daughter  married.  Yes  —  you  want  us  to 
lie  and  rot,  to  grind,  and  grind,  and 
grind  !  " 

Juan  threw  his  cartridges  angrily  on  the 
narrow  bed  that  stood  against  the  wall. 

"  What  right  has  she  to  set  herself 
above  us  all  and  give  herself  airs  ?  "  he 
said. 

u  There  you  are  now,"  chimed  in  his 
mother,  "at  it  again!  You  are  selfish, 
you  are  hateful  to  your  own  blood.  It  is  a 
fine  thing — ah  !  it  is  a  fine  thing  that  she 
has  taken  Ramon.  Why,  I  look  out  at  the 
mesas  and  the  cattle,  and  they  look  different 
since  I  know  she  has  got  Ramon.  Pah  !  you 
want  to  crawl  the  ground  forever.  Why 
—  she  is  a  lady  now;  she  is  up  with  the 
best  of  them  ;  she  will  have  money,  money. 
It  was  her  good  looks  that  did  it.  She 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA    13 

got  them  from  me.  There  was  n't  a  one 
of  them  could  hold  a  face  to  me  when  I 
was  young.  I  was  a  beauty.  If  it  is  all 
wrinkled  up  now,  it  was  a  face  for  the  best 
of  them.  It  is  what  she  deserves  !  " 

The  old  Mexican  stepped  unsteadily  to 
the  door  and  back  again  as  she  talked, 
puffing  at  her  cigarette,  motioning  ex 
citedly  with  her  hands,  and  calling  into 
play  the  muscles  of  her  face. 

"  But  it  is  this,  mother,"  said  Juan,  stop 
ping  in  front  of  her.  "  It  is  spoiling  it  all 
for  me.  You  know  I  have  got  work  at 
Taos,  better  than  any  of  this  work.  You 
know  I  am  going  almost  at  once,  as  soon 
as  this  wedding  is  out  of  the  way.  You 
know  I  had  planned  that  you  and  Ines  go 
with  me  and  keep  the  house,  that  I  would 
not  have  to  pay  others,  for  the  house  will 
come  with  the  work  if  I  have  you  to  keep 
it.  And  I  would  take  you  and  her,  and  we 
would  live  the  way  I  want  to  live,  where 
there  are  more  people  than  here  in  this  lost 
place,  with  nothing  but  cattle  and  mesas 
yonder  and  mountains  back  here.  And 
now  you  refuse.  You  say  that  because 
Ines  stays  here,  you  stay  here.  I  have  to 


i4  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

go  by  myself;  I  have  to  live  in  the  hut 
alone ;  I  have  to  cook  alone  ;  or  I  must 
go  and  pay  my  wages  for  some  one  else  or 
get  myself  married  to  some  slovenly  wo 
man  in  Taos.  It  is  selfish  in  you  both. 
It  is  because  she  is  proud  and  thinks  she  is 
better  than  I." 

u  Dios !  you  foolish  child !  All  for 
yourself,  your  hut,  your  work,  your  wages, 
your  cooking.  Pah  !  always  are  they  just 
to  sit  on  the  dirt  floor  and  work  for  you, 
the  women?  That  is  how  fine  a  young 
man  you  are  !  You  are  no  son  of  mine." 

"  But  I  do  n't  like  this  marriage.  I 
do  n't  like  this  Ramon  with  his  long  fin- 
gers." 

"  You  do  n't  like  your  own  cooking, 
better  say  —  and  well  enough."  She 
laughed  a  long,  croaking  laugh.  "  No 
more  do  the  rest  of  us.  It  is  not  the 
best  kind.  But  this  marriage  shall  be. 
She  shall  be  as  good  as  the  next  one. 
Tonita  says  she  is  already,  and  Tonita  is 
right." 

Juan  tramped  through  the  rear  room, 
and  went  sullenly  about  some  work  behind 
the  hut. 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  15 

Meanwhile  the  two  girls  had  entered 
the  house  that  faced  within  the  square  of 
the  fort.  It  was  a  long,  low  adobe  struc 
ture,  set  in  among  the  others  that  formed 
the  wall.  Its  rooms  were  large,  and  fur 
nished  with  much  more  refinement  than 
those  of  the  huts.  The  smooth  floors  of 
hard  earth  were,  in  the  main,  covered  with 
carpets;  the  great  adobe  fireplaces  spar 
kled  with  burning  pine,  for  the  evening  had 
come,  and  a  fresher  breeze  from  the  moun^ 
tains.  There  were  some  books  about,  an 
old  guitar  in  a  corner,  old  portraits  on  the 
walls,  and  other  reminders  of  Spanish  lux- 
ury.  The  house,  together  with  a  high 
adobe  wall  to  the  rear,  surrounded  a  small 
placita,  or  inner  court.  Across  this  the 
light  from  the  dining-room  shone  brightly. 
This  was  the  abode  of  Don  Carlos,  the 
old  Spaniard,  Tonita's  father.  He  was  a 
sort  of  acknowledged  lord  of  the  fort 
and  its  minute  settlement,  owner  of  the 
grazing-land  about,  and  benefactor  to  the 
Mexicans. 

The  family  was  seated  about  the  dining- 
table,  talking  volubly  in  Spanish,  gesticu 
lating  at  times,  answering  the  light  of  the 


1 6  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

lamps  with  the  sparkle  of  black  Spanish 
eyes.  Ines  sat  next  to  Tonita.  The 
impetuous  child  had  wholly  changed  her 
mood.  She  was  as  merry,  as  irrepressible, 
as  a  frolicsome  kitten.  Her  high-strung 
nature  treated  her  always  thus,  bandying 
her  about  among  different  moods.  Don 
Carlos,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  cast  his 
keen  eyes  at  her  in  silent  approval.  He 
had  always  loved  this  wayward  child, 
scarcely  second  to  Tonita  here  on  his  left 
or  Carlota  on  his  right. 

His  was  a  striking  face  -,  his  features 
delicate,  yet  firm  and  worn  with  hardships 
uncounted  ;  his  beard  gray,  showing  his 
age  scarcely  less  than  did  his  bent  form 
when  he  walked  •,  his  high  forehead  still 
white  where  the  hair  joined  it.  His  wife, 
at  the  foot  of  the  table,  was  liveliest  of 
them  all.  Her  cheeks  were  full,  her  com 
plexion  dark,  and  her  eyes  of  a  brilliancy 
that  it  would  take  many  years  yet  to  dim. 
Her  expression  showed  a  mixture  of  enjoy 
ment  and  benevolence.  A  shade  passed 
over  her  face  at  times  as  she  glanced  at 
Tonita.  Tonita  ate  but  little,  busying 
herself  in  her  care  for  Ines,  answering  the 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  17 

girl's  many  questions,  seeing  that  she 
wanted  nothing.  She  did  not  look  across 
the  table. 

Beside  Carlota,  across  the  table,  sat 
Ramon.  He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
young  Spaniard,  noticeable  in  that  his  hair 
was  lighter  than  that  of  most  Spaniards. 
His  complexion,  too,  like  Tonita's,  was 
peculiarly  white.  The  bronze  of  the  sun 
and  the  wind  could  not  cover  it  up.  His 
face  was  a  strong  one  and  his  eyes  spar 
kling.  He,  too,  sat  silent. 

u  Ramon,  Ramon,"  said  the  Senora, 
Tonita's  mother,  turning  her  face  quickly 
toward  him,  "  why  do  you  not  speak  ? 
You  are  eating  almost  nothing  at  all. 
Tut,  tut,  boy  !  and  to-morrow  your  wed 
ding-day  !  Why,  look  at  Ines  there. 
The  little  kitten  is  as  frisky  as  an  antelope 
on  the  mesas.  Ah,  such  eyes,  Ramon  ! 
See  her  blush  when  I  say  it;  look  at 
the  blood  come  up — up — up — ah  !  "  with 
a  peal  of  laughter  from  them  all  as 
they  watched  the  color  throbbing  in  Ines's 
cheeks  ;  "  what  did  I  say  ?  That  blush  is 
yours,  Ramon  !  Look  at  the  smile,  too  ! 
that  little  lower  lip  of  hers,  which  points 


18  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

so  bcwitchingly  in  the  middle.  Ramon, 
Ramon  !  you  see  all  this,  and  you  are 
silent!" 

"  Do  n't  you  see,  Sefiora,"  said  Ramon, 
his  face  lighting  up  to  some  degree, 
u  do  n't  you  see  it  is  because  I  am  just 
looking, — just  sitting  looking  ?  What 
more  could  a  fellow  do  ?  Who  could 
talk  with  it  just  overpowering  him?  " 

"  Besides,"  chimed  in  Carlota,  a  girl  of 
gentle  eyes  and  rich,  dark  complexion, 
"  Ines  is  doing  it  all  ;  and  Papa  there 
feeding  her  all  the  time,  too,  till  one  would 
think  she  would  choke.  Nevertheless  she 
talks  for  us  all.  Is  it  not  so,  Ines  ?  " 

"  O,"  said  Ines,  pointing  her  little  lip 
and  putting  on  a  mock  pout,  u  you  all 
tease  me, — O,  I  am  so  bothered  with  you 
all !  Look  at  you  all  now,  just  stare  at 
me  so  till  I  feel  the  blood  in  me  all  run 
ning  up  into  my  cheeks,  and  I  try  to  put  it 
down,  and  it  runs  up  the  more,  till  it 
blushes  itself  into  a  big  laugh  and  just  will 
come  out,  and  you  say  I  am  silly !  I 
won't  look  at  you, — there  now  !  See, 
here  are  three  leaves  I  pulled  from  the 
willows.  One  of  them  I  wore  on  my 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA   19 

heart.  That  was  for — well,"  with  a  blush 
and  the  sweetest  of  sweet  laughter,  and 
her  big  black  eyes  sweeping  the  circle  of 
them  and  sparkling,  "  well — for  somebody. 
The  next  one  I  had  at  my  throat,  for  Don 
Carlos,  but  he  is  bad  to  me  and  laughs  at 
me.  I  will  throw  it  away.  No,  here  ! " 
turning  to  him  sharply,  "  keep  it  locked 
up — I  wouldn't  have  it,  sir  !  O,  dear  me  ! 
I  would  n't  look  at  it!  Tonita 's  here — 
well,  Tonita  is  n't  so  bad  to  me  as  all  you. 
Here,  Tonita,"  turning  to  her  on  her  left, 
"  I  '11  put  it  in  my  hair  for  you,  because 
you  are  quiet.  Why,  Tonita,  you  are 
quiet.  See  here !  what  is  it  ? "  She 
leaned  over  in  her  chair  and  put  one  arm 
on  Tonita's  shoulder  and  looked  about 
roguishly.  "  Wake  up,  Tonita ;  it  is 
wedding-bells  ! "  blushing  again  and  smiling 
at  them  all  and  never  letting  her  little 
tongue  stop  an  instant.  "  Are  you  listen 
ing  to  them  ?  Is  that  it  ?  Come,  now, 
if  that  is  it,  you  make  me  blush  more  by 
being  so  still  than  by  talking  to  me.  Is  it 
that  ?  " 

u  Yes,"    said    Tonita,    smiling    at  her, 
"that  is  it  —  wedding-bells." 


20  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

Tonita  still  seemed  sad,  though  she  tried 
not  to  show  it,  and  said  jesting  things  to 
Ines,  and  fixed  the  leaf  in  her  black  hair. 
For  a  moment  her  eyes  caught  Ramon's. 
A  little  color  flushed  her  forehead  and  she 
looked  away  again  and  busied  herself  with 
Ines.  The  latter  was  so  much  younger 
even  than  her  years;  an  impetuous,  stormy- 
hearted  child,  the  uncontrollable  life  in  her 
ebbing  and  flowing  like  the  blood  in  her 
cheeks.  In  general,  Ramon  was  plainly 
depressed.  He  would  at  times  forget  him 
self,  then  glance  up  quickly  at  Ines  or  at 
Don  Carlos,  rarely  at  Tonita,  and  join  in 
the  idle  talk  with  but  half-spirit. 

"  But  Tonita's  leaf,  then,"  he  said,  "  is 
higher  than  mine,  Ines.  Maybe  I  do  n't 
like  that  ?  " 

u  You  ?  Why,  Ramon  !  who  said  you  ?  " 
Ines  put  on  a  quizzical  look  of  wonder 
and  gazed  at  them  all  as  though  it  were  in 
the  last  degree  absurd,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  ill-concealed  delight.  "  Listen,  all 
of  you.  Was  there  ever  anything  like 
this  ?  I  said  the  leaf  on  my  heart  was 
for  somebody.  This  man  here  jumps  at 
it  that  it  is  for  him.  Ha,  ha  !  Ramon  ! 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  21 

You  !  You  puzzle  me,  Ramon.  Let  me 
see  —  you  are  the  fellow  whom  I  never 
saw  till  you  came  one  day  to  live  here 
and  tend  Don  Carlos's  cattle.  Why,  I 
can  scarcely  recollect  anything  about  you 
at  all.  It  is  so  absurd,  young  man.  Let 
me  see  —  oh  yes  !  You  happened  to  go 
with  me  one  day  down  by  the  stream. 
Ah,  I  remember.  To  be  sure  !  It  was 
you,  was  n't  it?  " 

"  What  was  it  he  said  down  by  the 
stream  ?  "  said  the  Senora,  delighted  with 
the  girl's  mock  artfulness.  "  Forgotten 
all  that,  have  n't  you  ?  See  her  blush  now, 
Ramon  !  " 

The  little  irrepressible  laugh  that  came 
up  with  the  blush  burst  forth. 

"  O,  «',  si!  —  I  have  forgotten  it  all. 
Anyhow,  it  was  not  anything.  I  sang  to 
him  —  there  were  some  cattle  down  there. 
That  was  all.  What  did  he  say  ?  O, 
how  should  I  know  what  he  said  ?  Noth 
ing,  no  doubt ;  except  that  the  mesas  were 
fine  and  the  air  seemed  clear.  O,  dear 
me  !  "  The  light  laugh,  ringing  and  beau 
tiful  as  a  bird's  note,  dispelled  the  look  of 
mock  seriousness.  Tonka's  eyes  were  on 


22  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

her  now  —  on  the  flush  of  the  cheeks,  the 
glisten  of  the  hair.  Tonita's  eyes  were 
sad  and  there  was  a  deeper  shadow  in 
them. 

u  See  here,  little  one,"  said  Don  Carlos, 
who  had  been  watching  her  with  a  fond 
interest  in  his  old  eyes, — eyes  a  mixture  of 
keenness,  peace,  and  the  natural  pathos  of 
age.  "  What  will  you  do  with  yourself 
when  you  marry  Ramon  ?  " 

"Do?  Ah,  why — O,  well,  ask 
Ramon  !  " 

"You  will  just  sit  and  think  about  me, 
won't  you  ?  "  said  Ramon. 

"  O,  you  boy  !  I  can  do  that  without 
sitting  at  all." 

"  No,"  continued  the  old  Don  ;  "  how 
will  you  act,  little  one  ?  What  kind  of  a 
girl  are  you  going  to  be,  anyhow  ?  Why, 
the  idea  of  your  being  married  !  What 
will  you  do,  little  magpie  ?  " 

"  Blush,"  said  the  Sefiora,  "just  blush 
the  rest  of  her  life  awsy  in  a  great,  sweet 
blush, — that  is  it,  is  n't  it,  Ines  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  Carlota  ;  "  she  's 
going  to  do  what  everybody  else  does — 
she  's  going  to  cook.  Dear  me,  that  is 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  23 

simple  enough,  Papa  ;  cook,  of  course.  It 
is  Ramon  who  must  eat  it.  That  is  not 
so  simple,  maybe.  What  do  you  say, 
Ines  ?  " 

"  I  know  what  she  will  do,"  said  Tonita 
gently.  "  She  is  just  going  to  be  good." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Don,  "  little  magpie, 
what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Ines  sat  quiet,  her  eyes  very  wide  open, 
thinking  and  looking  across  at  Ramon. 

"  That  is  it,"  she  said  presently,  sweep 
ing  the  circle  with  her  big  eyes  and  speak 
ing  with  a  curt  decision.  "  Tonita  says 
it.  Be  good." 

The  old  Don  smiled,  and  tapped  his 
fingers  on  the  cloth  as  he  leaned  toward 
her. 

"What  does  that  mean,  being  good? " 

Ines  thought  a  moment  more,  with  her 
eyes  still  very  wide  open. 

u  It  means,"  she  said  slowly  and  weight 
ily,  like  a  justice  delivering  a  verdict,  "  it 
means  not  to  be  like  me!  " 

A  general  shout  arose  at  this. 

"O,  ho!"  cried  Carlota,  "  what  now? 
Going  to  be  solemn,  may  be, —  never  laugh 
any?  " 


24  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

"  Never  blush  any? "  suggested  the 
Senora. 

"  Why,  that  means  —  surely,  Ines,  that 
means,"  said  Ramon,  "  not  to  love  me!  " 

"  No;  I  can  wager  my  old  eyes  it 
is  n't  that,"  said  the  Don  with  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"What  is  it,  Ines?"  asked  Tonita. 
"Does  it  mean  that  —  not  to  love  Ra 
mon  ?  " 

"  O,"  said  Ines,  annoyed,  and  mock 
ingly  pouting  again,  u  no — it  is  n't  that ; 
not  that  I  would  n't  love  him.  It  just 
means — O,  well,  to  be  like  Tonita  !  " 

They  all  understood  that.  As  they 
loved  Tonita,  so  did  they  love  this  thing 
in  Ines  that  made  her  adore  Tonita. 
Tonita  bit  her  lip  slightly,  and  the  flush 
came  to  her  forehead  again.  She  did  not 
look  up. 

"  Little  magpie,"  said  the  old  Don, 
leaning  over  to  her  and  motioning  emphasis 
with  his  forefinger  at  each  word,  "you  are 
right.  Just — you — keep — to — that!  " 

As  soon  as  possible  Tonita  arose.  She 
wandered  a  little  listlessly  through  several 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  25 

of  the  large  rooms,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
before  one  of  the  fires,  which  crackled  and 
sent  its  sparks  out  at  her.  She  did  not  like 
the  light,  and  wandered,  still  alone,  out  of 
the  door  into  the  hollow  square  of  the  fort. 
It  was  dusk,  with  a  red  flush  in  the  sky 
over  the  summits  of  the  three  mountains  to 
the  left.  The  evening  breeze  came  fresh 
and  slightly  chill  down  along  the  western 
plain  that  led  to  the  peaks. 

She  stood  a  moment  in  the  square  and 
looked  at  the  ruined  walls  across,  and  at 
the  little  old  chapel,  part  of  the  wall  at  the 
farther  end.  They  would  be  married 
there,  she  thought.  She  turned  away  and 
walked  round  the  end  of  the  opposite  wall, 
and  along  the  stream  behind  it,  to  the  left, 
away  from  the  huts.  On  this  side,  too, 
the  willows  and  a  few  scrub-oaks  stood  in 
groups  upon  the  banks.  Among  these  she 
took  her  way.  There  was  no  path  here, 
but  a  sort  of  coarse  sward  covered  the 
earth  down  to  the  water's  edge.  She 
walked  on  till  she  stood  between  the  stream 
and  the  lower  corner  of  the  fort.  The 
walls  were  all  ruins  here,  and  stood  dark 
and  formless  in  the  dusk,  with  great  gaps 


26  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

above  and  heaps  of  old  adobes  below,  and 
arms  of  wall  reaching  out  brokenly  toward 
the  water. 

With  her  arm  upon  the  limb  of  a  little 
willow,  and  the  angle  of  the  ruined  wall 
close  behind  her,  Tonita  stood  and  looked 
at  the  water  flowing  over  the  rocks,  catch 
ing  the  last  of  the  daylight  in  its  ripples. 
There  was  a  deep  pain  gripping  at  her  heart. 
She  stirred  a  little  and  caught  the  glint  of 
the  water  far  up  the  stream,  and  rested  her 
head  against  her  arm  and  looked  blankly  at 
the  pebbles. 

There  was  the  snap  of  a  twig  down  the 
bank  of  the  stream  toward  the  other  end  of 
the  wall.  It  was  followed  by  steps  near 
her  on  the  sward.  Startled,  she  looked  up 
and  saw  Ramon  beside  her.  He  was  bare 
headed,  and  by  the  light  from  the  western 
sky  she  saw  that  he  was  pale.  Immedi 
ately  she  moved  as  though  to  leave  him, 
but  rested  her  head  against  her  arm  again. 
For  a  moment  he  watched  her. 

"  O  Tonita!"  he  began,  his  voice  shak 
ing,  "  what  is  to  be  done?  " 

Tonita  did  not  answer. 

"  I  thought  it  would  kill  me, — all  of  her 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  27 

talk  and  her  laugh  and  her  faith  in  me! 
God!  I  thought  it  would  kill  me!  " 

"  Ramon!  "  cried  Tonita,  turning  about 
and  facing  him.  "  Do  not  say  anything 
more — for  my  sake,  nothing  more.  Have 
we  not  said  enough — all  too  much?  There 
is  but  one  thing  to  do.  Heaven  help  us, 
Ramon,  you  know  it  as  well  as  I.  Why 
— why  do  you  come  near  me?  "  The 
voice  was  very  gentle,  but  broken  almost 
to  tears  at  the  last. 

"  Because  you  alone,  Tonita,  can  help 
me  through  it.  Dios!  but  I  am  weak!  I 
feel  as  though  I  could  move  mountains 
before  I  could  do  this — only  when  I  am 
with  you  and  you  give  me  strength.  I 
have  it  all  from  you;  just  as  I  love  you,  so 
have  I  the  strength  from  you.  I  cannot 
do  it  alone! " 

"  Hush!  Ramon,  it  is  wrong  that  I 
speak  to  you — that  I  look  at  you.  Oh!  my 
heart!  it  is  wrong  that  1  must  think  of  you 
day  and  night — day  and  night!  But  listen!" 
She  drew  herself  up,  and  her  white  face 
showed  a  calmer  firmness.  "  There  is 
but  the  one  thing.  You  must  take  her. 
Take  her,  and  after  a  while,  as  soon  as 


28  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

the  excuse  arises,  you  must  go  with  her 
away.  Ramon,  I  can  bear  it.  You,  too, 
you  are  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  But  Ines 
— Ramon,  it  would  kill  her.  She  knows 
nothing  of  herself,  nothing  of  anything  but 
that  she  loves  you.  It  would  kill  her!  " 

There  was  silence  a  moment,  Ramon 
with  one  hand  upon  the  ruined  wall,  his 
white  face  set;  Tonita  leaning  again  upon 
the  willow. 

"I  can  bear  it,  Ramon,"  she  said  again. 
u  Poor  Ines — poor  darling  Ines  !  God  pity 
her." 

"  God  help  a  poor  wretch  like  me  !  " 
broke  in  Ramon  passionately.  u  Oh  !  why 
did  n't  I  see  it  !  Why  was  I  so  blind  !  It 
came  so  suddenly  —  even  when  I  had 
hardly  seen  you,  and  she  was  always  there 
and  always  singing  and  always  happy.  I 
tried — I  tried,  Tonita — God  knows  I  tried 
that  you  should  never  know  it,  even 
that  I  should  love  her  still;  but  I  could 
not!" 

u  We  both  saw  it  at  once,"  said  Tonita. 
"  No  need  of  words,  no  need  of  silence. 
You  could  not  have  kept  it  back  more 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  29 

than  I.  But,  Ramon,  it  is  the  giving  it  up 
that  will  atone.  Hear  me,  Ramon  ;  look 
at  me,"  she  said,  turning  about  and  facing 
him  again.  "Let  me  show  you  how  strong 
I  am  to  give  it  up,  that  you  may  take 
strength  also.  Let  me  say  it  again  as  I 
stand  here,  let  me  break  my  heart  saying 
it — that  I  love  you — love  you — love  you 
with  all  the  heart  I  have — say  it  only  to 
show  you  that  I  can  turn  away,  here  as  I 
do  now,  away  from  you,  and  leave  you. 
And  why  ?  Because,  much  as  my  heart 
cries  for  you  and  breaks  for  you,  it  would 
not  for  the  world,  nor  the  heaven  that  1 
want  in  the  world,  tinge  its  own  purity  or 
break  its  own  strength  by  taking  you  from 
her.  God  bless  her  —  Ines,  my  blessed 
Ines  !  O  Ramon ! "  turning  her  black 
eyes  upon  him  again,  "  you  will  have  the 
strength — you  shall — my  love  shall  be  that 
strong.  If  it  is  the  only  way  to  give  you 
power  to  do  it,  then  my  love  shall  be  that 
strong.  See  now — I  am  willing  !  "  She 
had  stretched  her  arms  out  in  abandon 
ment  to  her  purpose,  and  her  slender  figure 
was  cut  clear  in  the  evening  light  against 


3o  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

the  background  of  the  mountains.  The 
white  face  was  whiter  still,  save  for  the 
flush  of  red  about  the  temples. 

Ramon  turned  away.  He  dared  not 
look  at  her.  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
hands  against  the  ruined  wall. 

"  I  will,  Tonita,"  he  said  brokenly, 
u  you  know  I  will.  There  is  nothing  else 
to  do,  and  it  is  for  you — for  you,  Tonita  ; 
all  I  can  give  you  now.  You  have  been 
the  only  light  in  it  all.  I  will  not  refuse 
you  now.  But  it  seems  it  will  kill  me. 
Every  day  I  have  seen  the  shadow  of  it — 
every  smile  she  gave  me,  every  blush, 
every  laugh.  I  have  done  everything  I 
could.  I  thought  I  loved  her ;  I  wanted 
to  make  her  happy.  Even  yet  I  would  not 
harm  her  for  the  world.  But  you — you, 
Tonita.  I  have  seen  you  every  minute  of 
the  day — the  very  breath  of  heaven  came 
from  you  ;  and  it  seemed  the  ground  under 
my  feet  was  shifting,  slipping  away,  leav 
ing  me  only  this  to  stand  on — this  sacrifice 
of  yours  and  mine.  And  now — now  it  is 
only  because  it  is  yours  and  mine  together 
that  I  can  bear  it.  Heaven  knows,  I  am 
weak.  My  love  for  you  is  too  great. 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  31 

Alone  it  would  kill  me.  But  it  is  that  I 
am  with  you.  Thank  God,  Tonita,  that 
you  are  pure  !  Yes — I  will  do  it.  Perhaps 
I  can  bear  it  now.  I  will  try." 

Tonita  bent  her  head  upon  the  limb  of 
the  tree.  The  stream  below  her  glistened 
like  the  eye  of  the  dusk.  She  felt  the 
mountain  breeze  blow  her  hair  about  her 
hot  temples,  and  a  great  sob  rose  in  her 
throat.  Beneath  the  sweet  gentleness  of 
her  nature  there  lay  the  native  warmth  of 
Spain,  with  all  its  power  of  emotion, 
making  the  sacrifice  greater. 

"Then  go,  Ramon,"  she  said  brokenly, 
not  raising  her  head.  ct  Go  now.  It  is  for 
her,  Ramon,  and — for  me." 

Ramon  saw  the  hand  she  stretched  be 
hind  her  toward  him,  took  it  in  his  a 
moment,  and  turned  and  went  away. 

Tonita  stood  silent  with  her  head  upon 
her  hand.  She  wanted  to  sink  upon  the 
ground  and  sob,  but  struggled  with  herself. 
Finally  she  raised  her  head  and  faced  the 
breeze  and  let  it  blow  over  her  face,  and 
walked  just  a  little  and  slowly  up  the 
stream  in  the  dusk.  The  water  beside 
her,  and  the  plain  stretching  on  up  to  the 


32  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

mountains,  and  the  silent  mountains  them 
selves  standing  majestically  against  the 
sky,  helped  her  in  the  struggle  as  nature 
had  always  helped  her.  She  had  known 
those  mountains  from  her  infancy,  and 
they  had  never  failed  her  yet.  At  last 
she  turned,  and  retraced  her  steps  about 
the  wall,  across  the  square,  and  into  the 
house. 

When  she  had  gone,  the  figure  of  a  man 
pushed  itself  through  an  aperture  in  the 
ruined  wall,  climbed  over  the  pile  of 
adobes  that  lay  beneath,  and  came  out  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream.  It  was  Juan.  He 
had  seen  Ramon  when  the  latter  left  the 
house,  and,  walking  along  the  inside  of  the 
wall,  had  crouched  in  the  ruins. 

"So  it  is  that,"  he  said  curtly  to  him 
self,  his  face  showing  malice.  "  Yes.  So 
it  is  that.  And  the  proud  thing  wants  to 
throw  herself  away  when  it  is  as  I  said. 
So.  The  cursed  Spaniard  !  " 

He  stood  for  a  while  and  watched  the 
water,  grunting  at  times  to  himself.  Sud 
denly  he  turned  down  the  stream,  along 
the  wall,  to  the  stepping-stones.  He 
paused  here  and  looked  back  for  a  moment 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  33 

at  the  old  Don's  house,  where  the  light 
from  the  largest  room  shone  through  the 
window.  He  could  hear  his  sister's 
laughter  and  the  voice  of  Don  Carlos. 
He  turned  away  again  and  crossed  the 
stream,  followed  the  path,  and  entered  the 
hut  among  the  willows. 

His  mother  had  lit  a  candle  which  sat 
upon  the  table.  She  was  washing  some 
dishes,  a  cigarette  still  in  her  mouth. 

u  Well,"  she  said  sharply,  u  are  you 
better  in  your  mood  ?  Are  you  still  fixed 
in  mind  that  your  own  blood  is  proud  and 
that  women  are  to  live  forever  in  two 
rooms  and  sit  on  dirt  floors  with  no  car 
pets  ?  Pah  !  you  are  ungrateful !  A  girl 
next  to  the  best  of  them  she  is  —  and 
worth  it.  I  wonder  what  have  you  been 
doing  now  ?  " 

Juan  said  nothing,  but  scowled  at  her. 
He  sat  down  on  the  outside  door-step  and 
remained  quiet  for  half  an  hour,  looking 
toward  the  fort.  He  could  still  see  the 
light  from  the  window  at  the  house  of 
Don  Carlos.  It  had  grown  quite  dark 
when  he  saw  Ines's  form  at  last  approach 
ing  the  stream.  There  was  some  one 


34  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

with  her,  doubtless  Ramon,  and  they 
stopped  at  the  stepping-stones.  Juan 
watched  them  silently.  Presently  Ramon 
left  her,  and  she  came  up  the  path  singing 
a  wild  little  air  to  herself.  She  stopped  in 
the  door,  with  blushes  on  her  cheeks  and 
her  hair  hanging  about  her  face.  She 
looked  like  a  child  and  was  still  gay. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  as  she  passed  Juan 
and  entered,  "  what  a  time  it  was !  Mother, 
Don  Carlos  says  he  has  half  a  mind  to 
marry  me  himself !  Good  old  Don 
Carlos  !  " 

"And  well  he  might  say  it  —  well  he 
might !  "  cried  the  old  Mexican,  grinning. 

Ines  helped  her  mother  with  the  dishes 
and  told  them  what  every  one  had  said, 
and  laughed  and  talked  and  sang  the  sup 
per  all  over  again,  and  danced  a  little  be 
tween  steps  as  she  went  to  and  fro.  Juan 
sat  still  in  the  door  and  said  nothing.  His 
presence  seemed  to  oppress  Ines  and  final 
ly  she  grew  quiet.  For  a  while  yet  she 
walked  about  doing  various  little  things  in 
the  room,  but  saying  nothing.  Her  viva 
cious  spirits  at  last  wore  themselves  out. 

She  took  a  second  candle  and  lighted  it 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA    35 

at  the  first  and  went  into  the  rear  room. 
Her  mother  lighted  another  cigarette  and 
sat  down  in  the  door.  Juan  had  arisen 
and  gone  inside.  When  his  mother  was 
fairly  engrossed  in  her  smoking,  he  went 
into  Ines's  room  and  closed  the  door. 

His  mother  smoked  one,  two,  three 
cigarettes.  She  heard  them  talking  in  the 
other  room,  but  —  pah  !  they  were  always 
quarreling !  She  was  thinking  about  the 
golden  future,  with  her  daughter  as  good 
as  the  best  of  them,  and  herself  living  to 
have  the  rapture  of  it.  Still  she  heard 
Juan's  voice  in  the  next  room.  That 
Juan  was  an  ungrateful  son  !  Would  he 
never  leave  the  child  alone  ?  But  wait ; 
Ramon  would  kiss  out  all  that  Juan  could 
say,  with  one  touch  of  his  lips.  Juan  was 
always  quarreling. 

At  last  Juan  came  out  and  went  away 
with  a  scowl  upon  his  face,  saying  nothing 
as  he  passed  her.  He  slept  with  some 
other  vaqueros  in  a  hut  a  little  way  down 
the  stream.  His  mother  arose  and  un 
dressed  herself  and  put  out  the  candle. 
There  was  no  sound  in  Ines's  room. 
Ah  !  asleep,  no  doubt,  thought  her  mother 


36  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

—  and  dreaming  of  Ramon.  Always 
Ramon  !  The  old  Mexican  curled  her 
stiff  limbs  upon  the  bed  and  went  to 
sleep. 

At  ten  o'clock  there  was  still  no  sound 
in  Ines's  room.  The  room  was  without  light 
as  well,  save  for  the  faint  light  of  the  night 
that  came  through  the  window.  Ines  had 
not  undressed  herself.  She  lay  without 
moving  on  the  bed,  staring  up  dry-eyed  at 
the  ceiling.  Even  had  there  been  light  to 
see  them,  there  were  now  noblushes  on  her 
cheeks  —  only  a  pallor  on  the  brown  skin. 
Nor  was  there  any  pout  to  the  lips,  which 
were  drawn  tight.  She  was  too  stunned 
as  yet  to  think  at  all,  save  to  wish  in  her 
simple  little  heart  that  the  Blessed  Mary 
would  have  her  to  die,  here,  now,  before 
she  had  more  time  to  think.  The  dark 
ness  itself  seemed  the  only  relief  to  her. 
She  did  not  believe  she  could  have  borne 
to  see  the  things  about  her.  The  girl 
that  sang  and  laughed  a  little  time  before, 
she  thought  must  have  been  some  other 
girl.  Already,  at  least,  she  must  be  a 
good  deal  older.  The  half-stupor  in 
which  she  lay  held  but  the  two  names  float- 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  37 

ing  in  it  —  Ramon  and  Tonita;  sometimes 
their  faces  also.  She  could  not  banish 
these.  Why  could  not  the  Blessed  Mary 
permit  her  to  die  now  ?  It  would  be  sim 
ple  enough,  just  lying  here  seeing  their 
faces  and  trying  not  to  think.  That  much 
she  could  bear. 

At  half-past  ten  she  was  thinking  more 
coherently.  She  could  not  bear  to  lie 
still,  and  crept  to  the  floor  and  stood  a 
moment  thinking  it  blankly.  The  wild 
little  heart  began  to  beat  more  violently 
now,  and  some  of  the  old  hot  blood  leaped 
to  her  face.  A  sort  of  pent-up  sob  broke 
on  her  lips,  and  she  clenched  her  hands 
and  leaned  her  weight  upon  the  door. 
The  blood  was  rushing  in  torrents  to  her 
forehead  and  her  eyes,  and  she  opened  the 
door  and  caught  the  night  breeze  on  her 
face.  Turning  again,  she  felt  for  the 
knife,  where  it  still  lay  upon  the  table,  and 
putting  it  in  the  belt  of  her  dress,  went 
out.  She  had  no  real  intent  to  use  it,  but 
there  was  the  wildness  at  her  heart  again 
that  made  her  instinctively  grasp  the 
handle.  No  —  as  she  went  on  haltingly 
in  the  night,  she  knew  that  she  would  not 


38   FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

need  the  weapon.  Tonita's  face  was  too 
plainly  before  her,  Tonita's  heart  too 
strongly  weighing  on  her  own,  Tonita's  life 
surrounding  her,  and  breathing  peace 
through  the  heat  of  her  part-savage  blood. 
The  moon  had  come  up  in  the  east,  and 
stared  blank  and  white  over  the  mesas,  and 
across  the  plains  to  the  willows  and  the 
stream.  She  had  little  heed  of  her  course, 
only  that  she  might  be  away  from  them 
all.  She  walked  slowly,  with  heavy  steps, 
down  along  the  stream,  among  the  wil 
lows.  The  night  air  cooled  her  forehead, 
and  laid  bare  the  blank  desolation  of  the 
fact.  She  did  not  wish  Juan  had  not  told 
her;  she  never  thought  of  that.  It  was 
only  that  a  great  desert  wind  had  come 
and  carried  it  all  away  —  everything  she 
dreamed,  or  thought,  or  lived.  It  was  as 
though  there  were  nothing  more  anywhere 
upon  the  earth.  She  thought  she  might 
have  seen  the  cloud  of  so  big  a  thing 
coming.  She  knew  not  how  to  think,  or 
what  to  feel,  or  where  to  turn.  The  great, 
empty  night  seemed  to  stand  about  a  long 
way  from  her,  cold  and  white,  and  just  she 
alone  lived  in  the  middle  of  it,  a  throbbing 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA   39 

heart  with  pain  and  desolation  in  its 
beating. 

So,  then,  it  was  as  she  had  feared.  She 
wondered  if  that  were  it  —  her  Indian 
blood.  Oh!  Blessed  Mary!  it  was  as  she 
had  feared!  Her  blood,  her  birth,  the  lack 
in  her,  the  wildness  that  she  could  not 
tame.  Why — they  had  not  let  her  try 
—  she  could  have  softened  it  —  surely  she 
could  have  shown  them  it  was  no  real  part 
of  her.  The  sense  of  helplessness  that  it 
was  a  thing  lying  back  of  her  power  to 
control  —  that  it  was  no  fault  of  hers,  this 
alien  blood,  brought  again  the  piteous  sobs 
to  her  lips. 

She  went  on  blindly,  following  the 
stream.  There  were  cattle  down  here, 
some  standing  about  in  the  moonlight, 
some  lying  down — formless  black  shadows 
on  the  misty  white  of  the  plain.  As  far 
as  she  could  see,  away  to  the  southeast, 
the  broad  valley  stretched,  dotted  more  in 
distinctly  with  the  herds,  growing  more 
misty  white  in  the  distance,  and  fading 
into  vague  moonlight  far  away.  Some  of 
the  cattle  near-by  turned  their  heads  and 
faced  her,  and  stood  in  passive  wonder 


40   FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

The  mistaken  sense  that  she  had  been 
lacking  in  spite  of  herself,  that  it  was  the 
hated  current  in  her  veins  that  had 
changed  it  all,  filled  her  with  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  guilt.  Oh!  why  had  they  not  seen 
it  all  before — why  had  they  let  her  believe, 
and  hope,  and  love  so!  What  was  the 
terrible  God  up  there,  where  the  sky  shone 
white,  that  had  branded  this  thing  on  her 
which  she  could  not  help?  She  wondered 
if  the  very  stars  could  see  that  she  was 
less  than  he ;  if  the  Blessed  Mary  hated 
the  wild  current  in  her  veins ;  if,  had  she 
been  given  a  little  longer — just  a  little 
longer — she  could  have  put  it  down,  and 
kept  his  love.  All  she  could  conceive  was 
that  Juan  had  been  right;  that  the  brand 
on  her  had  sickened  Ramon's  love;  that 
the  rapture  of  her  short,  impetuous  life 
had  burned  itself  out  with  the  heat  of  her 
blood. 

She  had  wandered  perhaps  a  mile.  A 
level  space  opened  among  the  willows, 
with  the  stream  sparkling  through  its  cen 
ter,  and  a  few  boulders  strewn  about.  It 
was  here  they  had  come  together  that 
other  day,  when  he  had  told  her  he  loved 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  41 

her.  She  threw  herself  face  down  upon  a 
rock,  wishing  she  could  sob  her  life  out 
there.  But  the  tears  did  not  come;  there 
was  only  the  desolation  and  the  helpless 
sense  of  lack  in  herself.  For  an  hour  she 
lay  there,  her  heart  aching.  She  went 
over  every  scene  with  him,  recalled  his 
every  look.  Twice  there  came  over  her 
a  new,  wild  impulse.  It  was  the  spirit  of 
revenge.  She  felt  her  hand  grasp  the  hilt 
of  the  knife,  while  the  blood  seemed  to 
leave  her  heart  and  rush  in  hot  torrents 
over  her  little  body. 

But  immediately  Tonita's  face  came  to 
her.  No.  That  would  be,  above  all 
else,  what  Tonita  would  have  her  put 
down.  It  was  Tonita  who  led  her — 
always  Tonita.  Then,  too,  that  spirit  of 
revenge,  she  thought,  must  be  the  hated 
blood  in  her.  That  was  what  she  had  tried 
so  hard  to  put  away.  She  would  not  turn  to 
that  now,  go  back  to  that  part  of  herself 
that  had  caused  it.  Tonita  would  tell  her, 
No,  and  she  had  said  she  would  be  like 
Tonita.  A  sort  of  wild  pride  came  into 
her  despair,  a  pride  in  putting  down  her 
impetuous  self,  now  when  he  had  turned 


42   FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

away  from  it,  and  it  made  no  difference. 
Not  once  did  jealousy  or  hatred  of  Tonita 
enter  her.  She  knew  that  Tonita  had 
given  him  up  to  her.  That  was  like 
Tonita — always  so — always  just  as  Ines 
wished  that  she  herself  could  be.  She 
could  at  least  be  true  to  Tonita  in  this, 
that  she  would  not  think  of  hating  him, 
nor  of  revenge. 

As  the  hour  went  by  there  was  one 
other  thing  that  came  to  her,  grew  on  her 
minute  by  minute, — the  temptation  to 
end  the  despair.  The  untutored,  savage 
element,  turned  from  its  natural  course  of 
hate,  seemed  to  leap  up  and  force  her  on 
to  self-destruction.  Her  whole  body 
tingled  with  the  wild  impulse — to  cut 
away  the  despair  that  seemed  to  be  killing 
her,  to  resent  this  thing  that  had  been  no 
fault  of  hers,  to  blot  out  the  blank  misery 
of  the  hour.  The  struggle  grew  terrible. 
She  writhed  in  pain  upon  the  rock.  The 
savagery  of  ancient  tribes  seemed  to 
bound  in  her  veins.  But  there  was  Tonita 
still.  She  had  conquered  herself  other 
times  for  the  love  of  Tonita  j  would  the 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  43 

Blessed  Mary  only  help  her  through  this 
— not  let  her  lose  Tonka's  face  a  moment, 
nor  the  eyes  that  had  never  turned  upon 
her  with  anything  but  love.  This  one 
last  thine — this  hardest  of  all — she  would 

O 

overcome  for  Tonita.  Tonita  had  taught 
her  how  ;  she  would  fight  it  out  if  it  killed 
her.  That  too,  she  knew,  was  the  voice 
of  the  blood  she  hated,  the  blood  she 
thought  had  turned  him  away. 

Martyrs  have  suffered  such  as  that ;  it 
was  the  death  struggle  of  the  wild  tribes 
against  the  stronger  nations  from  the  other 
world,  brought  down  into  one  human  heart, 
and  fought  out  there  to  the  last  drop  of  the 
savage  blood. 

At  last  she  arose  and  went  back,  still 
slowly,  but  not  hesitating.  As  she  went 
on,  her  brow  grew  cool,  her  heart  calmer, 
the  purpose  crystallizing  in  her  mind. 
Softly  she  crept  to  the  hut  where  Juan 
slept  with  the  other  vaqueros.  She  tapped 
gently  on  the  window,  which  she  knew  to 
be  beside  his  bed.  Presently  he  was 
aroused  and  had  dressed  himself  and  come 
out,  stupidly  wondering  at  her. 

"  Get  the  horses,"  she  said.     "  We  will 


44  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

go.  Juan,  I  think  you  were  right.  I 
cannot  stay.  I  will  go  with  you." 

Juan  stared  stupidly. 

"  We  will  go,"  she  said  again.  "  To 
Taos.  Now." 

Juan  stood  and  stared  and  began  to 
understand  that  he  had  succeeded.  He 
was  doubtful  about  this  way  of  going  in 
the  night.  Why  not  wait  ?  She  said 
what  she  could  to  influence  him,  almost  in 
desperation  lest  she  should  fail.  She  dared 
not  wait.  Her  tone  finally  persuaded  him. 

"  But  what  of  mother  ?  "  he  asked. 

11  We  must  leave  her.  You  can  come 
again  for  her.  Only — get  me  away  !  " 

Two  horses  were  silently  procured,  to 
gether  with  a  sort  of  ancient  carriage  built 
with  two  wide  seats  and  heavy  wheels  for 
mountain  traveling.  While  Juan  was 
about  this  Ines  went  to  her  room  and  lit 
the  candle.  She  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl, 
took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  book  Tonita 
had  given  her,  and  the  pen  and  ink  with 
which  Tonita  had  taught  her  to  write. 
When  she  had  stilled  her  hand  from 
trembling,  she  wrote  a  note  and  put  To- 
nita's  name  upon  it. 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  45 

Over  across  the  hollow  square  of  the 
fort  the  old  Don's  dwelling  lay  in  the 
quiet  of  the  night.  With  swift  steps  Ines 
hastened  to  a  door  in  the  rear  wall  of  the 
little  placita,  crossed  the  inner  court  with 
the  moonlight  falling  on  its  bare,  hard 
earth,  and  entered  a  hall  that  led  to  To- 
nita's  room.  The  torrent  of  blood  came  to 
her  face  again  and  the  blinding  tears  to  her 
eyes.  If  she  could  only  have  dared  to 
open  softly  the  door  and  enter  and  see  the 
face  again !  But  she  would  not.  She 
leaned  against  the  door  a  moment  and 
wet  its  panels  with  her  tears  and  kissed 
the  wood.  Then  she  knelt  and  thrust 
the  note  beneath  and  turned  and  went 
back. 

Juan  was  ready  with  the  horses  and  had 
placed  some  few  household  things  within 
the  vehicle. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  do  not  wait.  You 
will  come  for  mother  again — when  we  are 
safe  beyond  the  mountains." 

She  sunk  upon  the  rear  seat  and  buried 
her  face  upon  the  worn  leather  cushion, 
not  daring  to  look  back.  Juan  drove  her 
away  along  the  western  trail,  and  the  dis- 


46  FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA 

tant  mists  of  the  moonlight  swallowed 
them  up. 

In  the  morning,  at  the  Don's  house,  they 
were  awakened  by  the  voice  of  the  old 
Mexican  raised  in  shrill  lamentation  in  the 
placita.  They  hastened  out — the  Sefiora 
already  filled  with  apprehension,  Ramon 
deep-eyed  with  loss  of  sleep — and  found 
her  relating  to  Don  Carlos,  with  excited 
gesticulation,  the  discovery  of  her  daugh 
ter's  disappearance,  and  bewailing  her  own 
forsaken  condition. 

In  hastening  to  the  placita  Carlota  must 
pass  through  Tonita's  room.  She  found 
her  sister  standing,  white  and  silent,  with 
the  paper  in  her  hand.  Tonita  sank  upon 
her  knees  beside  the  bed,  moaning  to  her 
self: 

u  Oh !  my  Ines, — my  poor  darling  Ines! " 

Without  lifting  her  face  she  gave  the 
note  to  Carlota,  who  took  it  and  read.  It 
was  thus,  written  in  the  girl's  misspelled 
Spanish  : 

"  TONITA, — I  go  away  because  I  want 
to  be  like  you  in  this  too.  Juan  has  told 
me,  and  I  want  to  give  up  Ramon  for 
you.  I  will  try  to  be  as  you  have  taught 


FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  TONITA  47 

me  how.  I  can  bear  it,  Tonita,  because 
you  know  it  is  the  way  you  have  taught 
me.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  can 
not  bear.  That  is,  for  you  or  him  to  come 
after  me.  Then  I  would  kill  myself.  Do 
not  do  that  if  you  want  me  to  be  good. 
"  YOUR  INES." 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

¥ 

THE  stage-road  ran  along  the  foot  of 
the  mesa  to  a  little  "  tavern  "  that 
stood  among  the  rocks.  The  build 
ing,  an  erratic  mixture  of  adobe  and  tim 
bers,  was  a  stranger  to  the  art  of  archi 
tecture.  There  was  little  within  several 
miles,  except  the  house  itself,  the  rocks, 
and  the  stage  when  it  came.  The  bare 
prairie  stretched  far  away  to  the  front. 
Mr.  Scaps,  a  smirking  gentleman  in  a 
white  apron,  owned  and  operated  the  es 
tablishment,  the  operation  consisting  chiefly 
in  serving  bad  liquor  over  a  small  and 
greasy  bar  in  the  front  room. 

Scaps  had  a  daughter,  who  lived  with 
him  and  took  dilatory  charge  of  the  din 
ing-room,  when  she  could  be  induced  to 
come  out  from  Raton.  She  much  pre 
ferred  what  she  called  "  times  "  in  Raton. 
She  considered  it  dull  out  here  at  the 
tavern,  but  if  it  was  dull  when  she  was 

4» 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      49 

present,  it  must  have  been  dead  indeed 
when  she  was  absent ;  for  Maria  had  a 
way  of  turning  things  to  her  own  account. 

She  was  a  small  girl,  and  plump,  with  a 
habit  of  wrinkling  up  her  forehead  in 
resignation  to  some  invisible  unpleasant 
ness.  This  habit  of  the  forehead,  instead 
of  being  objectionable,  was  deemed  by 
Maria's  acquaintances  to  have  some  pecu 
liar  charm  of  its  own.  It  is  certainly  true 
that  there  was  something  about  the  girl's 
face  (really  not  a  pretty  face,  being  too 
plump  and  too  short)  which  had  potency, 
and  attracted  men.  In  that  boisterous  and 
occasionally  alarming  style  of  love  affair 
which  characterized  this  unhampered  terri 
tory,  she  was  long  since  recognized  as  an 
adept. 

She  wore  dresses  that  reached  only  to 
her  shoe-tops,  let  her  hair,  neither  very 
long  nor  of  any  particular  color,  hang 
down  in  a  braid,  and  as  a  general  rule 
carried  her  hat  in  her  hand.  In  contrast 
to  the  expression  of  forehead  already  al 
luded  to,  it  may  be  remarked  that  her 
mouth  wore  the  perpetual  promise  of  a 
laugh. 


50      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

At  the  time  that  these  things  occurred, 
there  were,  besides  occasional  stragglers, 
three  particular  men  who  found  much 
business  at  the  tavern.  When  she  had 
been  in  Raton,  they  were  busy  elsewhere  ; 
two  of  them  at  least  probably  also  at 
Raton.  Now,  that  she  had  returned  to 
the  wilds  of  the  stage-road,  business  with 
them  had  shifted.  Milt  and  Smiley  were 
cowboys  and  inseparable  companions. 
They  clung  together  through  all  variations 
of  fortune,  glued  by  the  common  interest 
of  hope  in  Maria,  like  bees  clinging  to  the 
same  drop  of  honey ;  each  perhaps  with 
some  fear  lest,  should  he  loose  his  hold  on 
the  other,  he  might  be  deprived  of  the 
prey. 

The  third  man  had  only  happened  in  of 
late.  He  was  a  dapper  little  chap  with 
some  of  the  air  of  the  town  about  him. 
He  wore  trousers  wide  at  the  bottom,  and 
a  cap  thrown  back  anywhere  among  the 
irregular  locks  of  his  hair.  One  of  these 
locks  hung  down  over  his  eyes,  which 
were  shrewd  and  audacious.  A  cigarette 
was  always  in  his  mouth,  usually  hanging 
from  his  lips,  helping  thus  to  express  a 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      51 

contempt  for  the  world.  This  was  Dix, 
of  late  formidable;  for  though  the  cowboys 
regarded  him  as  absurdly  young,  they 
feared  some  unknown  tactics,  and  mis 
trusted  the  air  of  the  town. 

"  Got  back  earlier  than  usual  to-day  ?  " 
said  the  smirking  Scaps,  as  Dix  entered 
the  bar-room  about  noon.  Dix  puffed  at 
his  cigarette  and  volunteered  a  conserva 
tive  «  Yes." 

"  Still  havin'  business  up  over  the 
mesa  ? "  inquired  Scaps,  leaning  over  the 
bar. 

"  Still  seeing  after  the  old  gent's  min 
ing-stock  over  the  range,"  said  Dix,  chew 
ing  his  cigarette  and  waving  the  hair  out 
of  his  eyes. 

"  The  old  gent,  eh  ?  "  pursued  Scaps. 

"  My  dad." 

"  Minin'-stock,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yep." 

"  Where — where  was  it  you  said  he 
lived  ? " 

"  Trinidad." 

Scaps  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and 
eyed  the  younger  man.  His  broad,  flushed 
face  expressed  some  disgust  when  Dix  was 


52      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

not  looking.  Dix  lit  another  cigarette, 
walked  about  pompously  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  two  doors,  perceived  that  they 
were  both  closed,  and  came  and  leaned 
over  the  bar.  He  put  his  chin  in  his  hand 
and  looked  at  Scaps  with  an  air  of  com 
placent  familiarity. 

"  She 's  a  mighty  fine  gal  ! "  he  said 
presently. 

Scaps  winced  a  trifle,  but  smiled  affably. 

u  She  beats  anything  yet,"  volunteered 
Dix  with  assurance,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

u  Maria  ?  "  aimlessly  queried  Scaps. 

u  Scaps,  I  '11  tell  you  what,  she  's — 
she  's  the  very  deuce  of  a  girl." 

Scaps  began  employing  his  hands  with 
bottles  and  a  corkscrew,  looking  all  the 
while  at  Dix.  The  latter  chewed  his 
cigarette,  took  a  full  breath,  and  finally 
observed  : 

u  I  want  her,  Scaps." 

Scaps  suddenly  stopped  his  movements 
with  the  bottles. 

"  Which  ?  "  he  said  with  evident  con 
cern. 

"  Her,  herself,  Scaps.      I  want  her." 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      53 

Scaps  dropped  his  jaw  the  fraction  of  an 
inch  and  stared,  with  the  flush  of  his  face 
deepening. 

"  Marry  her,  you  know,"  said  Dix. 

The  flush  on  the  tavern-keeper's  face 
still  deepened.  For  a  moment  neither 
spoke,  Dix's  chin  still  resting  on  his  hand 
and  his  face  expressive  of  audacious  assur 
ance,  Scaps  standing  staring  at  him.  Pres 
ently  the  latter  breathed  heavily  and  set 
down  the  bottles  ;  then  his  wrath  exploded. 

u  You  sassy  little  idiot !  "  he  broke  out. 
"  Marry  her,  eh — marry  her  ?  Well,  not 
while  Scaps  is  atop  of  the  ground  !  Why! 
you  ain't  got  stuff  enough  in  you  to  blow 
your  brains  out.  Minin'  stock,  eh? — 
minin'  stock  !  I  knowed  you  all  along, 
and  it 's  a  lie  !  You  seen  her  in  Raton, 
and  you  come  out  here,  and  been  workin' 
me  blind.  Minin'  stock!  Look  here, 
young  man,  you  ain't  got  nothin'  but 
what 's  on  your  back,  and  your  hoss.  Now 
I  '11  give  you  till  to-morrow  mornin'  to 
clear  out ;  hear  ?  No  little  dried-up  cuss 
with  a  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head  ain't 
goin'  to  marry  my  gal.  Till  to-morrow 
mornin' ;  hear  ?  " 


54      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

Having  said  thus,  Scaps  shut  up  like  a 
clam  and  turned  stolidly  about  to  the  bot 
tles  and  the  corkscrew.  Dix  still  leaned 
over  the  bar  with  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
fvfing  the  tavern-keeper.  No  whit  of  his 
assurance  appeared  to  be  abated.  He 
puffed  complacently  at  his  cigarette  and 
looked  inscrutable.  Finally  he  walked  to 
the  door,adjusted  his  cap  farther  back  on  his 
head,  lit  a  third  cigarette,  and  after  a  pause 
of  complacent  puffing  quietly  withdrew. 

As  Dix  stepped  to  the  rear  of  the  tavern 
he  beheld  Maria  some  hundred  yards  or  so 
up  the  side  of  the  mesa,  just  disappearing 
behind  a  rock  of  unusual  size.  He  who 
should  think  this  coincidence  one  of  un 
premeditated  chance  could  not  be  consid 
ered  conversant  with  Maria's  ways.  Dix, 
too,  climbed  the  mesa,  stopping  now  and 
then  on  the  way  up  to  view  the  expanse  of 
prairie  scenery  behind  him  and  puff  calmly 
at  his  cigarette.  The  plump  Maria  was 
sitting  with  her  back  against  the  rock  when 
he  casually  sauntered  round  the  corner  of 
it.  He  stood  in  front  of  her  with  his  feet 
apart  and  his  cigarette  hanging,  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      55 

"  No  go,"  said  Dix  at  last. 

"  O,  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it !  "  said  Maria 
with  the  wrinkle  of  resignation.  u  What 's 
to  be  done  now,  Dixie  ?  Here  I  am — 
how  are  you  goin'  to  get  me  ?  "  She  burst 
into  a  laugh. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  the  old  cub  ? " 
inquired  Dix,  removing  his  cigarette. 

"  Matter  with  him  ?  Why,  I  'm  the 
matter  with  him  !  " 

"  What  makes  him  so  deucedly  particu 
lar  ? " 

«  Milt." 

"  Milt  ?  H'm.  Wants  you  to  marry 
Milt  ?  " 

"  Wants  me  to  marry  his  cattle  and  his 
three  mesas,"  said  Maria.  She  arose 
friskily  and  danced  about  a  little,  whether 
in  impatience  or  amusement  Dix  failed  to 
perceive.  Then  she  leaned  against  the 
rock  with  her  hat  in  her  hand  and  laughed 
long  and  hilariously.  Dix  eyed  her  with 
some  wonder. 

"  Well — come  to  it,  come  to  it,"  he 
said. 

u  O,  Dixie,  Dixie  !  did  you  really  think 
you  could  come  it  over  the  old  man  ? 


56      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

You  came  out  of  it  better  than  ever  I 
thought.  Why,"  seriously,  "  he  's  horri 
ble  !  "  She  did  a  little  clog-dance  over  the 
stones  with  a  very  meditative  expression 
of  countenance.  Dix  stood  by  and  puffed 
and  looked  on.  She  ended  suddenly  by 
pulling  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes  and 
throwing  his  cigarette  away. 

"  Wake  up  !  "  she  said  sharply. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Dix. 

"  Well,  ain't  you  goin'  to  do  anything?  " 

"  Why,  thunder  and  lightning,  what  is 
there  to  do  ?  " 

14 You've  got  to  do  something,  you 
know,  Dixie." 

"  Yes,  according  to  the  old  cub,  I  've  got 
to  clear  out  by  to-morrow  morning." 

Maria  wrinkled  up  her  forehead  and 
whistled. 

u  What  ever  got  into  him  to  give  you 
so  long!  He  never  did  before  !  " 

«  Call  it  long,  eh  ?  " 

Maria  turned  her  back  and  burrowed 
her  head  against  the  rock. 

u  Plenty  of  time,  Dixie." 

u  Time  for  what  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  're  goin'  to  do." 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      57 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  you  'd  do  it." 

u  There  ain't  anything  else." 

"  Run  off,  eh  ?  " 

The  girl  turned  about  with  the  wrinkle 
on  her  forehead,  and  swung  her  hat  by  its 
cord  round  and  round  her  finger. 

u  I  've  thought  it  out  many  a  time," 
she  said.  "  I  knew  just  how  it  would  be. 
Looky  over  here."  She  went  to  the  cor 
ner  of  the  rock  and  pointed.  The  thumb 
of  her  other  hand  was  in  Dix's  buttonhole, 
and  Dix  was  lighting  another  cigarette  and 
attending  her  remarks.  u  See  the  house 
down  there.  Me  and  you  in  it.  Supper- 
time,  you  know.  Then  the  sun  '11  go 
down  over  this  way.  Look  at  that  little 
ribbon  of  trail  goin'  away  off  yonder  over 
the  prairie — away  off  farther  till  it 's  gone. 
That 's  the  way  me  and  you  '11  do.  To 
night." 

Dix  looked  out  over  the  prairie,  and 
puffed,  and  eyed  the  girl  in  calm  admira 
tion. 

"  Maria,"  he  said  meditatively, "  you  're 
a  bird.  There 's  just  one  thing.  You  never 
can  keep  Milt  and  Smiley  off  the  scent. 
They  '11  be  back  by  three  o'clock,  and 


58      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

neither  of  'em  '11  take  his  eyes  off  you  till 
bedtime.  We  can  dodge  Scaps." 

The  two  stood  in  thought  for  some  time. 

u  Maria,"  said  Dix  presently,  "  I  am 
possessed  of  an  idea." 

41 1  knew  it — I  knew  it!      What  is  it? " 

44  Can't  you  turn  'em  against  each 
other?" 

"How?" 

44  O,  you  can  turn  'em  somehow. 
Tell  Milt  it  's  Smiley,  and  Smiley  it 's 
Milt,  and  lie  about  it,  and — O,  any  way. 
You  need  n't  tell  me  you  can't  do  it." 

44  It  'd  be  hard — but  maybe  I  could  do 
it." 

In  the  course  of  a  half-hour,  when  Dix 
sauntered  down  the  mesa,  he  was  whistling 
gently  to  himself.  A  little  later  Maria 
descended  from  a  different  direction. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  two 
men  quietly,  even  stealthily,  mounted 
horses  before  the  tavern  and  side  by  side, 
carefully  eyeing  one  another,  rode  out  over 
the  prairie.  They  were  Milt  and  Smiley, 
and,  like  Moses  and  the  Children  of  Israel, 
they  were  seeking  the  back  side  of  the 
desert. 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      59 

Smiley  was  long  and  lean,  and  at  present 
wrapped  in  despondency.  His  companion, 
always  noted  for  melancholy,  added  to  that 
general  depression  some  little  of  suppressed 
wrath.  Milt  was  a  middle-aged  man,  whose 
peace  of  mind  was  easily  wrecked.  He 
sat  nervously  in  his  seat.  Each  man  held 
a  cocked  revolver  over  the  horn  of  his  sad 
dle;  each  kept  his  eyes  fastened  with  deep 
suspicion  on  the  face  of  the  other. 

The  sandy  trail  led  far  out  over  the 
barren  flats  lying  dim  under  the  stars.  The 
horses  jogged  with  slow  and  regular  beat 
of  hoof.  Perhaps  two  miles  were  traversed 
in  absolute  silence.  The  stars  blinked  on 
the  motionless  weapons,  and  the  riders' 
eyes  wandered  not  from  their  mutual  gaze. 
It  was  Milt's  deep,  despondent  voice  that 
broke  the  silence. 

u  Might  as  well  put  up  your  gun.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  shoot  till  we  git  there." 

u  Put  up  yours  first,"  replied  Smiley,  his 
gaunt  face  seeming  to  his  companion  to 
shine  out  of  the  darkness  with  dangerous 
hate. 

u  Stuck  together  a  long  time  to  be  ex- 
pectin'  dirt-play  now,"  said  Milt. 


60      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

"  When  I  say  c  three*  we  '11  put  up  the 
guns,  and  neither  one  of  us  '11  take  'em  out 
till  we  stand  on  the  Cimarron  bank  ready 
fer  business,"  said  Smiley. 

u  Ready  fer  business,"  repeated  Milt. 

"  One,  two — you  ain't  goin*  to  fool  me 
now,  Milt?" 

u  Naw,"  in  deep  disgust;  "  go  on." 

"  One,  two,  three." 

The  hammers  of  the  revolvers  were 
simultaneously  lowered  and  the  weapons 
stowed  away.  The  silent  march  was  con 
tinued,  the  horses  walking  very  close  to 
gether,  the  men  still  watching  each  other. 
Several  miles  more  were  traversed.  There 
was  no  sign  of  human  life  for  leagues 
about.  Now  and  then  the  distant  wail  of 
a  coyote  came  floating  over  the  stretch  of 
sandy  soil.  At  last  it  was  past  nine  o'clock. 
Milt's  melancholy  tones  broke  the  silence 
once  more. 

u  Why  not  right  here — and  git  rid  of 
it?" 

"  No,  there's  water  there,  and  brush  fer 
a  fire." 

u  Fer  a  fire?" 

"Might   as  well   make   a   fire.       More 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      61 

light,  you  know.  Might  as  well  do  it 
comfortable." 

u  How  far  is  :t?  I  'm  gettin'  kind  o' 
sick." 

"  'Bout  three  mile  yet." 

Silence  again,  and  the  cushioned  tread 
of  the  horses.  Away  in  the  east  a  very 
faint  tint  of  yellow  suggested  the  moon 
that  would  after  a  while  appear.  A  light 
breeze  played  over  Smiley's  thin  and  rugged 
features,  flapped  the  brim  of  his  sombrero, 
and  went  over  to  Milt,  and  wantoned  in 
his  tangled  black  hair.  The  night  was 
terribly  empty  and  depressing.  Milt  was 
feeling,  or  imagining,  cold  drops  on  his 
forehead.  Even  now  neither  man  removed 
his  eyes  for  more  than  a  few  seconds  from 
the  face  of  his  companion. 

They  came  to  a  huge  bend  in  the  course, 
where  the  trail  followed  a  curve  of  a  little 
stream.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Both 
men  halted  with  their  horses'  heads  over 
the  water.  They  could  hear  the  small 
flood  gurgling  away  aimlessly  into  the  night. 
Each  man  watched  the  other,  and  neither 
moved.  Some  minutes  went  by. 

"  You  're  goin'  to  do  it  fair,  Smiley  ?  " 


62      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

"Why,  pshaw!  I'm  fair  enough  if 
you  're  fair." 

Neither  dared  to  dismount  before  the 
other.  The  horses  were  growing  restless 
and  stretching  their  necks  for  the  water. 

"  Count,"  said  Milt. 

"  One,  two,  three." 

The  two  men  were  on  the  ground  at  the 
same  instant.  Each  keeping  his  steed  be 
tween  himself  and  the  other,  the  animals 
were  finally  watered  and  picketed.  The 
men  stood  again  silently  confronting  each 
other. 

"  Who  's  to  build  the  fire  ?  "  asked  Smi 
ley. 

"  If  it 's  all  honest  fair  and  nothin'  's  to 
be  done  till  we  git  the  camp  laid  out,  why, 
gad,  Smiley,  I  '11  make  the  fire." 

"  I  'm  fair  if  you  are,"  said  Smiley,  sus 
piciously. 

u  Then  here  goes,"  retorted  his  com 
panion.  "  You  git  the  blankets." 

«  Blankets  ?  " 

u  Yes.  I  put  two  of  'em  behind  my 
saddle." 

"  What  are  they  fer  ?  " 

"  Fer  the  feller  that 's  hurt." 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      63 

There  being  still  much  suspicion  and 
much  sidling,  brush  from  along  the  stream 
was  finally  accumulated,  a  bright  fire  made 
to  crackle  and  send  its  light  up  into  the 
darkness,  and  the  roll  of  blankets  brought 
and  placed  upon  the  ground.  The  blaze 
lit  up  the  trail  before  and  behind  for  many 
yards,  and  pushed  the  darkness  like  a  wall 
out  into  a  great  circle.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  relieve  the  barren  soil  save  the  water 
and  the  men  and  the  blankets.  Turning 
so  as  always  to  face  Smiley,  Milt  unrolled 
the  blankets  and  spread  them  together  by 
the  fire,  Smiley  meanwhile  looking  on 
gloomily. 

u  Lot  o*  mess  fer  a  dead  man,"  said 
Smiley.  His  companion  seemed  to  have 
developed  some  old-womanish  traits.  He 
pottered  about,  still  cautiously,  however, 
and  stirred  the  fire  and  straightened  the 
blankets ;  the  expression  on  his  weather- 
beaten,  even  wrinkled,  face  was  one  of 
deepest  dejection. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  plenty  o' 
time  and  everything  's  to  be  fair,  and  we  've 
been  good  friends  to  one  another.  Might 
as  well  do  everything  right." 


64      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

Finally  the  two  men  sat  down  on  oppo 
site  sides  of  the  fire,  looking  gauntly  at  each 
other.  The  revolvers  were  out  again, 
each  on  the  knee  of  its  owner.  Some  ten 
minutes  went  by  in  silence.  Milt's  face 
grew  older  visibly,  and  there  was  an  un 
wonted  hardness  about  Smiley's  lips. 

"Smiley,"  said  Milt. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  If  it 's  me,  Smiley — "  He  paused 
and  looked  mournfully  into  the  fire  ;  then 
proceeded  : 

"  Smiley,  if  it 's  me,  one  o'  the  mesas  is 
yours  and  the  other  two  hers.  The  cattle 
goes  even." 

"  It 's  uncommon  good  o'  you.  Milt." 

u  Well,  I  aint  got  nobody  else." 

Silence  again  for  some  time,  each  finger 
ing  his  weapon. 

u  I  aint  got  nothin'  to  leave,"  said  Smi 
ley.  u  If  it's  me,  Milt — just  so  I  'm  put 
under  decent,  that  's  all." 

"  That 's  what  the  blankets  is  fer,"  re 
plied  Milt,  looking  across  to  the  spot  where 
they  lay. 

"We've  hung  together  perty  thick, 
aint  we  ?  "  said  Milt,  after  a  time. 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      65 

u  And  never  had  no  trouble." 

"  We  might  'a'  seen  it  comin',  though, 
Smiley." 

"  It  was  a  mighty  strong  thing  on  both 
of  us  ; — O,  it  's  a  natural  enough  end  on  it, 
considerin  this  here  country." 

"Natural  enough." 

The  water  rolled  on  into  the  night  and 
the  rim  of  the  moon  began  to  appear  over 
the  edge  of  the  prairie,  and  still  the  two 
men  sat. 

"  Do  you  mind  the  time  you  thought  I 
stole  your  saddle,  Smiley  ?  " 

"  I  knowed  right  off  it  was  n't  you, 
Milt." 

"  Well,  well— let  it  pass." 

"  There  was  one  thing,  Milt,  I  always 
had  a  mind  to  say,  but  somehow  could  n't 
come  to  it." 

Milt  waited. 

"  I  done  you  dirt  just  oncet,  Milt." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  I  'd  never 
do  such  a  thing  again.  I  ketched  one  o' 
your  steers  that  was  n't  branded,  and  kept 
it." 

"  O,  well — let  it  pass." 


66      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

"  Milt,"  after  another  pause,  "  I  do 
think  a  heap  o'  that  gal,  honest." 

"  So  do  I." 

Perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  silence, 
and  Smiley's  voice  again. 

"  Might  as  well  come  to  the  business, 
might  n't  we?  " 

u  I  reckon  so." 

"It's  all  fair  now,  Milt?" 

a  O,  o*  course — I  know  it  's  fair." 

Simultaneously  the  two  men  arose. 

"We'll  eo  out   here  in  the   trail  about 

O 

twenty  yards  and  stand  off  ten,"  said  Smiley. 

"  Mind  now,  Smiley,  here  's  the  blan 
kets  ready  fer — fer  whichever  's  hurt,  you 
know." 

u  Fer  whichever 's  hurt,"  repeated  Smi- 
ley. 

With  weapons  in  hand  and  eyes  fas 
tened  on  each  other,  the  men  were  on  the 
point  of  starting.  Suddenly  there  was  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  coming  down  the 
trail  on  a  brisk  trot  from  the  direction  of 
the  tavern.  The  prospective  duelists 
paused  in  nervousness.  The  hoofs  came 
nearer,  and  out  of  the  darkness  grew  two 
horses  with  riders.  They  came  on  into 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      67 

the  brighter  fire-light,  and  halted.  The 
weapons  dropped  out  of  the  duelists'  hands. 
One  of  them  was  discharged,  and  the  bul 
let  plowed  up  the  sand  under  the  horses. 

"  Maria  !  "  gasped  Milt.  Smiley's  jaw 
was  hanging.  Maria  leaned  her  plump 
body  complacently  against  a  great  pack 
that  was  tied  to  the  rear  of  her  saddle. 
Dix,  with  the  inevitable  cigarette,  and  the 
cap  for  once  on  the  front  of  his  head,  eyed 
the  men  in  audacious  amusement.  He 
puffed  a  little,  and  said  : 

"  Come  on." 

The  horses  started  forward  along  the 
stream  toward  the  rising  moon,  the  cow 
boys  stupidly  staring  after.  A  laugh  rang 
into  the  night  from  one  of  the  disappear 
ing  couple. 

u  Good-by,  boys,"  came  Maria's  voice, 
wafted  in  gentle  undulations  on  the  breeze. 
"Don't  hurt  each  other — it's  naughty; 
and  it  would  n't  do  any  good."  The  laugh 
seemed  to  go  away  after  her,  and  died  with 
the  sound  of  the  hoofs. 

For  a  moment,  once  again,  the  men 
looked  at  each  other.  Then  they  slowly 
sat  down  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fire. 


68      A  COMPULSORY  DUEL 

"  She  told  me  it  was  you,"  said  Milt  at 
last. 

"  Why,  she  told  me  it  was  you." 

The  realization  of  the  fact  stopped  fur 
ther  comment  for  a  time. 

u  She  told  me  a  lot  o'  lies  about  you, 
Milt." 

"  Me,  too." 

11  It  was  her  that  done  it  about  fightin'. 
She  says  I  was  n't  worth  her  if  there 
was  n't  no  shootin'  in  it." 

"She  told  me  the  same  thing,  Smiley." 

"  Why,  I  did  n't  want  to  shoot  you, 
Milt." 

"  Well,  it  looked  somehow  like  a  cow- 
puncher  ought  to  be  up  to  anything  o'  the 
kind.  That 's  the  only  reason  I  done  it." 

About  half-past  eleven  Milt  arose.  He 
looked  dubiously  at  the  blankets  spread 
out  smoothly  upon  the  ground,  then  at 
Smiley,  then  again  at  the  blankets. 

"  There  they  are,  Smiley,"  he  said  de 
jectedly,  pointing  to  them. 

Smiley  looked  grimly  into  the  fire. 

"  Which  one  of  us  is  hurt,  Smiley  ?  " 

Smiley  slowly  arose. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 


A  COMPULSORY  DUEL      69 

Together  the  two  men  lay  down  side  by 
side  upon  the  blankets,  and  wrapped  their 
forms  into  one  gray  bundle. 

The  night  grew  deeper,  the  great  moon 
came  up  into  a  barren  sky  and  stared 
across  the  plain,  and  the  fire  went  out. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Milt 
heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  She  was  n't  wuth  it,  anyhow,  was  she 
Smiley  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Naw,"  said  Smiley. 


THE  DRIVER  OF  THE 
OCATE 


A  LITTLE  adobe  hut  stood  in  the 
valley  between  the  mesas.  A  bay 
horse  was  picketed  three  hundred 
yards  to  the  front.  At  the  side,  across 
the  trail  that  led  away  to  the  west  into  the 
mountains,  the  little  adobe  stable  held 
several  others.  There  was  a  well  in  front, 
and  a  minute  meathouse,  adobe  also,  on 
the  other  side,  in  what  was  for  some 
obscure  reason  called  the  garden.  Some 
two  hundred  yards  to  the  rear  a  milch  cow 
was  chewing  her  cud  in  a  barren  corral. 
Beside  the  well  were  a  wagon  and  a  wood 
pile,  and  two  dogs  and  a  little  boy  played 
about. 

There  was  nothing  else  visible,  except 

the  things  nature  had  put  there,  for  twenty 

miles   down  the  valley,  across  the  brown 

prairie  to  the  east  ;  nor  for  three  miles  to 

70 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE     71 

the  west,  between  the  mesas,  till  they 
closed  the  view  and  let  the  distant  moun 
tains  peep  over  them ;  nor  to  the  right  or 
left,  for  a  half  or  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  to  the 
mesas  themselves,  rising  abrupt.  If  you 
had  followed  that  New  Mexican  trail  for 
eight  miles  toward  the  mountains,  you 
would  have  come  to  another  adobe  dwell 
ing,  but  it  was  too  far  away  for  moral 
effect. 

The  house  comprised  four  little  rooms, 
strung  along  one  after  the  other,  with 
doors  between,  too  low  for  the  Frenchman 
(who  had  built  it  himself,  by  the  way)  to 
go  through  without  stooping.  There  was 
no  front  door — only  two  or  three  rear  ones, 
which  answered  very  well.  Indeed,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  tell  where  the 
front  of  the  house  was,  for,  where  it 
seemed  to  be,  there  was  only  an  eye  of  a 
window,  and  no  one  ever  went  there,  any 
how,  for  it  faced  no  place  where  any 
one  would  want  to  go.  The  kitchen  occu 
pied  about  the  middle  of  the  house,  with 
the  lowest  door  of  all  opening  out  toward 
the  well.  The  only  room  to  the  left  of  the 
kitchen  was  Mr.  Frank's  room,  being  the 


72    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

largest.  To  the  right  were  two  other 
rooms  in  succession,  one  of  which  was  the 
dining-room.  This  last  and  Mr.  Frank's 
room  had  doors  also  opening  out  toward 
the  well  and  the  wood-pile. 

The  boy,  who  had  been  picketing  the 
bay  horse,  and  had  stopped  to  play  with 
the  dogs  and  mimic  the  coyotes,  presently 
wandered  into  Mr.  Frank's  room.  Mr. 
Frank  lay  in  bed,  with  his  white  hair  and 
beard,  more  silvery  white  and  beautiful 
than  seemed  consistent  with  anything  else 
in  New  Mexico,  spread  out  about  his  face. 
His  face  was  white  also,  but  of  a  kind  of 
whiteness  that  shone  through  a  weather- 
beaten  countenance.  There  was  some 
thing  almost  pensive  in  his  expression,  or 
perhaps  in  the  lack  of  it,  and  his  eyes 
wandered  about  a  little  with  a  vacant 
stare. 

Maggie,  the  Frenchman's  wife,  hovered 
about,  arranging  the  old  man's  long  night 
gown,  or  straightening  the  covers.  She 
was  a  born  soubrettc,  having  wandered 
somehow  out  of  the  East,  and  with  the 
rugged  solitude  of  this  new  Western  earth 
only  partially  taming  the  soubrette  spirit. 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    73 

But  there  was  unlimited  kindness  of  heart 
in  her  eyes.  She  must  have  been  thirty 
years  of  age,  but  she  wore  a  short  dress, 
coming  just  above  the  shoe-tops.  It  was 
easier  to  manage. 

"  Maggie,"  said  the  Frenchman,  who 
sat  far  back  in  a  big  chair  and  smoked 
complacently,  "  he  ain't  gettin'  no  better. 
Tongue  paralyzed." 

"  More  than  his  tongue,"  said  Maggie, 
touching  her  temple.  "  He  does  n't  have 
any  idea  what  we  're  saying.  His  brain  's 
somehow  wrong." 

"  Left  hand,  too,  took  a  little.  Seems 
stiff,  kind  o'." 

The  Frenchman's  eyes  opened  and  shut 
in  immovable  calmness  as  he  puffed  at  his 
pipe.  He  was  very  tall  and  slender,  with 
stooped  shoulders.  His  weather-beaten 
face  wore  the  expression  of  one  whom  long 
familiarity  with  the  dangers  of  Western 
life  had  put  beyond  the  power  of  being 
surprised.  He  was  slow  and  good- 
humored,  never  conscious  of  a  reason  for 
excitement.  His  face  was  long,  with  a 
very  large  nose  ;  his  eyes  and  voice  were 
almost  gentle. 


74    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  How  long  since  he  come,  Maggie  ?  " 
"  Two  weeks  Sunday." 
"  Gettin'  tired  tendin'  to  him  ?  " 
"  O,  I    do  n't    mind — gives    me   some 
thing    to  think   about."     She   hummed  a 
little  flippant   tune  and   went  to  the  door. 
u  He  is  n't  a  great  deal  of  bother,  only  he 
will  get   up  when  I  'm   not  watching,  and 
he  goes  tottering  around,  mumbling." 

Something  seemed  to  attract  the  para 
lytic's  attention.  He  raised  his  head  a 
little  from  the  pillow.  One  thin  hand 
was  stretched  out  on  the  bed.  He  mumbled 
incoherently  to  himself: 

"  Whuzz'a — whuzz'a — whuzz'a — ." 
The  sound  seemed  like  some  broken 
question  beginning,  "  What 's  the — ."  It 
stopped  with  the  second  syllabic,  however, 
and  after  several  repetitions  trailed  off  into 
mumbling.  The  old  man  stared  vacantly 
at  the  door. 

"  Whuzz'a  —  whuzz'a  —  whuzz'a — ," 
he  said  again,  after  a  moment. 

The  dogs  suddenly  set  up  a  furious 
barking  without,  and  two  horsemen  rode 
to  the  door. 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    75 

The  old  Frenchman  stiffly  arose,  still 
puffing,  and  went  out. 

"Why,  it's  the  Giant,"  he  said,  "and 
Lebi." 

"  It 's  us,"  said  the  Giant,  a  man  of 
huge  frame  and  massive  jaw,  riding  a  black 
horse.  Behind  him,  on  a  smaller  animal, 
rode  a  little,  swarthy  Mexican  with  great 
lips  and  glittering  black  eyes. 

The  Frenchman  puffed  silently  at  his 
pipe,  eyeing  the  new-comers.  After  a 
moment  he  said : 

"  Get  down  ?  " 

"  Got  room  fer  us  ? "  inquired  the 
Giant. 

"  Oh,  such  as  there  is." 

The  two  dismounted. 

"  Picket  your  horses  out  there  any 
place,"  said  John,  as  he  stooped  through 
the  kitchen  door,  and  entered  the  house. 
Maggie,  accustomed  to  such  demands  on 
her  hospitality,  began  preparing  supper  for 
six  instead  of  four. 

"  Who  are  they,  John  ?  " 

"  O,"  said  John,  evasively,  "  they  're 
fellows  from  Wagon  Mountain.  I  used 


;6    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

to  know  'cm  up  in  the  mountains.  Reckon 
I  know  everybody,  eh  ? "  he  continued, 
with  a  broad  smile. 

u  Whuzz'a  —  whuzz'a  —  whuzz'a  —  " 
came  from  the  old  man  in  the  next  room. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Mr.  Frank,"  called 
Maggie,  cheerily.  "  It 's  only  visitors. 
I  '11  have  your  supper  ready  pretty  soon. 
My!  "  to  John,  u  he  's  always  hungry — 
and  eat — whew!  "  she  whistled  a  little  on 
a  high  note. 

The  two  travelers  came  in,  the  Mexi 
can  stopping  by  the  door  and  the  Giant 
being  in  a  formless  way  introduced  to 
Maggie.  After  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes  they  sat  down  to  a  supper  of  oat 
meal  and  pancakes  in  the  dining-room. 
Maggie  was  occupied  during  most  of  the 
meal,  however,  in  feeding  Mr.  Frank  in 
the  rear  room. 

The  Mexican  said  absolutely  nothing, 
but  ate  voraciously,  with  his  head  low 
down  and  his  black  eyes  on  his  plate. 
The  Giant,  too,  was  unusually  quiet.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  said  : 

"Who's  him  in  there?"  pointing 
toward  Mr.  Frank's  room  with  his  thumb. 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    77 

"  That 's  old  Frank,"  said  John. 

"  Which,  the  driver  ?  " 

«  Same/' 

"  Him  that  drove  the  Ocate  stage  ?  " 

"  Same  Frank." 

"What's  wrong?" 

"  Got  laid  up,  somehow.  You  know 
he  quit  the  Ocate  last  March  and  went 
over  on  the  other  trail.  Had  n't  heard 
nothin'  from  him  till  I  went  over  to 
Watrous  and  found  him  laid  up,  with  some 
Mexicans  half  tendin'  to  him.  I  brought 
him  here." 

"  Fever?  " 

"Paralyzed  a  little,  looks  like.  Wrong 
in  his  head  —  can't  talk." 

"  How  'd  it  happen?  " 

"  Could  n't  find  out.  They  said  he 
come  wanderin'  there  in  the  night.  He  's 
never  been  in  his  head  since.  O,"  with 
a  gentle  calmness,  "  he  's  gettin'  old,  you 
know,  gettin'  old — like  me." 

"  Whuzz'a  — whuzz'a  —  whuzz'a — ," 
came  from  the  other  room. 

"  O,  you  're  spilling  it,  Mr.  Frank, 
you  're  spilling  it!  "  they  could  hear  Mag 
gie  say. 


78    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"H'm!"said  the  Giant,  in  meditative 
surprise;  "  so  that 's  him  that  drove  the 
Ocate  fer  eight  years,  an*  was  the  sharp 
est-eyed  man  in  the  territory." 

u  You  ought  to  knowed,"  said  John, 
with  his  mouth  and  huge  nose  joining  in  a 
smile,  to  himself. 

The  Mexican  gulped  audibly,  and  ate 
faster,  saying  nothing. 

"Well,  that  he  was — an*  pluck  — 
Lord  !  "  said  the  Giant.  "  Yes,  I  ought 
to  knowed.** 

No  one  spoke  for  a  while. 

"That  old  man  's  seen  wild  times, ain*t 
he,  John?  *' 

u  He  *s  been  through  a  heap — who  ain't, 
out  here?  You  know  he  had  a  little  ranch 
some  twenty  years  ago  down  by  Tipton- 
ville.  Wife  died,  and  he  went  out  pros- 
pectin*.  Went  clean  to  Alaska  oncet. 
Come  back  and  went  on  the  trail.  Never 
had  but  one  son,  I  guess,  and  he  run  off. 
Old  man  's  clean  alone — just  Maggie  and 
me.  Maggie  *s  mighty  good." 

An  hour  later  the  night  had  come,  and 
an  early  moon  was  shining.  Mr.  Frank 
was  asleep,  and  Maggie  and  the  boy  were 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE     79 

in  the  front  room.  As  the  Frenchman 
leisurely  returned  from  some  last  attention 
to  the  horses,  walking  a  little  bent,  and 
still  smoking,  the  Giant  stopped  him  at 
the  wood-pile. 

"  Thought  I  might  as  well  tell  you 
what  we  're  after,  John." 

The  Frenchman  stopped,  and  puffed, 
with  one  hand  at  his  pipe,  scrutinizing  the 
Giant. 

"'Cause  you've  always  been  neutral, 
an'  in  no  ways  notionate  about  us  fellers, 
an'  you  'd  better  know  what  we  're  goin' 
to  do." 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  hold  up  the  stage  a 
bright  night  like  this?  " 

"No,  it  ain't  that." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  You  know  me  an'  Lebi  quit  the  gang 
a  month  ago,  an'  been  stayin'  at  Vegas  an' 
one  place  an'  another,  like  white  people, 
teamin'  an'  cow-punchin'." 

"  And  I  was  mighty  glad  of  it — it  was 
time — by  the  Lord,  it  was  time!  " 

The  Giant  shifted  a  little  uneasily  from 
one  foot  to  the  other,  and  the  Frenchman 
waited. 


80    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  But  you  know  Pete  an*  Laskins  still 
held  the  old  game." 

"  Nothin'  Ml  stop  Laskins.  But  Pete 
— he  *s  young  to  be  in  the  business." 

u  He  's  an  ungodly  good  hand  at  it." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  's  a  price  on  them  two 
fellers'  heads." 

"  So  I  heard." 

"  A  thousand  apiece." 

"  So  I  heard.     What 's  it  for  ?  " 

"  Some  piece  o'  work  over  on  the  Baldy 
trail.  The  sheriff  at  Wagon  Mountain  's 
got  the  money  to  hand  to  the  man  that 
brings  'em  in,  dead  er  alive." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence  for  a  moment.  The  Mexican  had 
come  out,  and  was  crouched  in  a  heap  by 
the  well,  several  rods  away. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  John. 

"We  're  goin'  to  do  it,  John." 

The  Frenchman  puffed,  puffed,  with  no 
move  or  expression. 

u  They  're  in  the  same  old  place — up 
around  Garrett  Peak.  We  know  it  like  a 
book,  Lebi  and  me," 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    81 

Still  the  Frenchman  made  no  reply,  but 
silently  puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"  I  hate  the  Mexican,  but  he  M  sell  his 
soul  for  a  thousand  dollars." 

John  leaned  against  the  wood-pile,  and 
looked  down  the  long  meadow,  where  the 
Wagon  Mountain  trail  showed  itself 
faintly  in  the  moonlight. 

"  It 's  got  to  be  done  delicate,"  said  the 
Giant. 

The  Frenchman  made  no  reply. 

"  I  can  signal  'em  easy,  an'  we  '11  drop 
in  on  'em  an'  make  it  up  again  to  go  back 
to  the  business.  They  '11  take  it  straight, 
an'  like  enough  fix  up  a  job  right  off — 
with  four  of  us." 

The  Mexican  shifted  a  little,  drawing 
his  knees  up  close  to  his  face,  making  a 
black  bunch  out  of  himself. 

"  We  can  wait  till  they  're  asleep,  then 
you  know — jus'  one  apiece.  Both  these 
horses  can  carry  double." 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  while, 
with  the  Frenchman  meditatively  smoking. 

"  It 's  a  rotten  piece  of  business,"  he 
said  slowly,  at  last. 


82    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

u  It  's  accordin'  to  the  law,"  said  the 
Giant. 

"  A  rotten  piece  of  business,"  repeated 
the  Frenchman. 

"Well,  Lord,  yes, — I  ain't  hankerin' 
deep  after  the  pleasure  in  it,  not  by  a  devil 
of  a  sight — Lord  !  " 

The  Frenchman  thought  a  moment 
more. 

u  I  'd  kick  tremendous  hard  on  it  if  it 
was  n't  for  Laskins.  That  man  ought  to 
be  hung — hung  nine  times,  if  he  'd  stand 
it.  I  'd  like  to  see  him  get  it  any  way 
there  is  to  give  it  to  him.  He  's  the  most 
hellish  desperate  man  in  the  mountains, 
and  dirty  mean.  But  Pete." 

The  other  made  no  answer. 

"  Still,  he's  done  enough  to  deserve  it," 
said  the  Frenchman.  u  He  's  a  bad  man 
— pshaw!  we  're  all  bad  enough.  But 
somehow  I  always  liked  Pete." 

The  Giant  did  not  reply. 

u  You  're  a  cussed  set  of  fellows,"  said 
the  Frenchman  after  a  pause.  "  You  're 
a  cussed  set  of  fellows.  If  it  was  n't  for 
riddin'  the  country  of  Laskins — .  It  '11  be 
a  dirty  trick." 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    83 

u  It 's  the  only  way  to  do  it.  Long-eyed 
Pete  an'  that  devil  of  an  Englishman  ain't 
caught  no  other  way." 

u  When  are  you  goin'  ?  "  asked  John. 

u  Start  up  to-morrow  mornin'.  Get 
there  in  the  night  some  time." 

The  two  stood  thinking  for  perhaps 
three  minutes.  Then  the  Frenchman 
started  in,  smoking  still. 

"  Recollect,"  he  said  pausing,  "  this  is 
your  business  and  none  of  mine.  I  don't 
believe  I  in  no  ways  approve.  But  I  'm 
neutral,  like  you  said,  and  you  fellows  can 
fight  it  out  amongst  you.  You  '11  be  comin' 
back  this  way  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that 's  why  I  told  you — we  '11 
have  to  come  back  this  way." 

"  Well,  it 's  your  own  business.  Stay 
here  to-night,  o'  course,  but  I  ain't  in  no 
ways  approvin'  of  the  thing.  It 's  a  dirty 
piece  of  business." 

He  re-entered  the  house. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  "  put  some  beddin' 
on  the  kitchen  floor  for  'em.  They  've 
got  a  long  ways  to  go  and  had  n't  better 
start  till  morning." 

The    Giant    meanwhile    stood    by   the 


84    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

wood-pile    for    several    minutes,    looking 
down  the  meadow. 

u  Come  on,"  he  said  at  last  to  the 
Mexican.  The  latter  arose  and  silently 
followed  him  into  the  house. 

At  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  a 
bright  sun  over  the  mesas,  the  two  brought 
their  horses  to  the  well  and  prepared  to 
start.  The  boy  and  the  Frenchman  and 
his  wife  came  out  to  watch  their  departure. 

u  It  's  a  long  piece  you  've  got  to  go,  is 
it  ?  "  asked  Maggie. 

"  Lord,  yes,"  replied  the  Giant ;  u  way 
up  past  Cimarron." 

"  You  won't  get  there  before  night  ?  " 

"  No,  hardly  before  mornin'." 

u  Live  up  that  way  ?  "  asked  Maggie, 
looking  up  with  her  sharp  eyes. 

"  Well — ,  O  yes — yes,  you  might  say 
so.  We  used  to  live  up  that  way." 

"  Well,  good  luck  to  you,"  she  said, 
starting  in  the  house  whistling  a  little  tune. 

"We  '11  be  back  this  way  before  long,  I 
reckon." 

"  O,"  she  said,  stopping  in  the  door 
and  eyeing  them  again  with  her  head  on 
one  side.  "  You  Ml  be  back  ?  " 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    85 

There  was  a  fumbling  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Frank's  room.  The  door  opened,  and  the 
old  man,  dressed  in  his  nightgown,  came 
tottering  out  before  Maggie  could  stop 
him.  He  seemed  dazed,  and  stared  at  the 
horses  and  groped  about. 

u  Whuzz'a — whuzz'a — whuzz'a — " 

"  Oh!  Mr.  Frank  !  Mr.  Frank  !  come 
back  inside — mercy  me  !  You  '11  catch 
your  death  of  cold  !  " 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  as  she  might 
have  taken  a  child,  and  led  his  wandering 
steps  back  into  the  house.  The  men 
could  hear  him  still  mumbling. 

"  That 's  him,"  said  the  Giant,  rather 
to  himself  than  to  any  one  else.  "Lord! 
I  'd  know  him  anywheres.  Pore  old  man!  " 

With  that  the  two  rode  slowly  away 
toward  the  west. 

"  John,"  said  Maggie,  as  they  watched 
the  riders  through  a  rear  window  in  Mr. 
Frank's  room,  "  I  do  n't  like  those  men." 

John  made  no  reply. 

"  John  ?  " 

"  Well,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Those  men  are  n't  very  good  sort  of 
men;  you  know  it." 


86    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  O — we  ain't  none  of  us  good  out 
here,  Maggie." 

u  But  they  're  bad,  are  n't  they,  John  ?" 

u  Lord,  Maggie,  it 's  owin'  to  what  is 
bad.  I  reckon  we  're  all  bad.  A  man  has 
to  be  bad." 

"  No,  but  John — are  n't  they  real,  un 
usually — very,  very  bad  ?  " 

John  puffed  a  little. 

u  No,  Maggie  ;  unusually  bad  ? — no,  I 
do  n't  know  as  they  are." 

II 

The  early  moon  again,  and  the  eastern 
sky  white  with  it  as  it  rose  higher  toward 
the  zenith.  The  mesas  had  been  left  be 
hind  and  the  trail  was  climbing  ruggeder 
heights.  All  about  stood  giant  rocks  and 
craggy  precipices,  some  higher,  some 
lower,  some  abrupt  against  the  sky,  others 
yonder  in  the  distance.  The  moonlight 
robbed  the  scene  of  form  and  added  to  it 
beauty.  Breezes  in  pine  trees  made  a 
lonesome  sort  of  music ;  otherwise  the 
silence  seemed  a  positive  thing  of  potency. 
The  horses  clambered  over  the  stony  way, 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    87 

and  stopped  and  puffed,  and  clambered 
over  the  way  again,  and  got  on  somehow 
— anyhow — through  the  night.  The 
Giant  rode  in  front,  leading  the  way,  and 
Lebi  followed,  kicking  his  horses'  sides 
regularly  with  its  steps  after  the  resultless 
manner  of  the  Mexican. 

u  Then  what  did  you  come  for?  "  said 
the  Giant,  breaking  a  long  silence  which 
followed  the  sound  of  the  Mexican's  com 
plaining  voice.  cc  You  cussed  Mexicans 
are  cowards,  every  one  o'  you." 

Lebi  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  while,  the 
reins  hanging  on  his  horse's  neck,  his  own 
head  drooped  in  sulky  meditation. 

"  Me  no  coward,"  he  said  presently. 
"  Me  rob  stage  all  'lone  when  you  'n' 
Laskins  dead  drunk  at  Ocate." 

"  With  one  man  in  it,  an'  him  a  con 
sumptive — a  devil  of  a  fine  piece  o'  work  ! 
An'  you  carried  off  my  end  o'  the  swag, 
I'll  bet  you  that." 

"  You  liar! " 

The  Giant  suppressed  a  laugh  of  con 
tempt  that  nevertheless  got  out  into  the 
night  and  echoed  a  little  among  the  rocks. 
He  would  have  laughed  so  at  a  coyote  that 


88    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

followed  his  horse,  or  a  snake  that  rattled 
at  him  as  he  passed. 

"  Liar,  eh? —  well,  let  it  go  at  that. 
You  got  more  than  your  share  by  the 
agreement,  anyhow  ;  an'  I  did  n't  believe 
then, an'  I  don't  believe  now,  that  that  stage 
carried  only  two  hundred  dollars.  But, 
Lord,  you  can  have  it." 

u  Me  no  got  it,  me  no  had  it,  me  no 
want  your  money.  You  liar." 

u  I  wonder  who  's  the  liar.  Cowards 
are  generally  liars." 

u  It 's  the  sneakin'  lika  this,  where  it  *s 
devilish  shut  in  up  yonder,  what  me  no 
like.  Long-eyed  Pete  no  easy  man — no 
catch  him  'sleep." 

u  Did  n't  I  tell  you  he  knows  my 
whistle?  Now  stop  your  baby-talk.  No 
— O,  no!  —  you're  no  coward.  You 
robbed  the  stage  by  yourself  the  other  side 
of  Ocatewhen  me  an'  Laskins  was  drunk. 
If  you  was  so  brave  then,  what's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  now  ?  I  '11  bet  you  done  it 
because  you  was  too  big  a  coward  to  keep 
from  it,  with  us  on  the  other  side  o'  the 
ridge  to  cuss  you  if  you  did  n't.  I  '11  bet 
them  bow-legs  o'  yours  shook  like  a 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    89 

knocked  steer's.  Maybe  Pete  an'  Laskins 
are  gettin'  ready  to  rob  the  same  stage 
when  she  goes  through  to-morrow  night. 
Stir  yourself  up  an'  show  us  some  o'  your 
Indian  blood.  O,  no,  you  're  no  coward. 
Do  you  know  who  it  was  drivin'  the  stage 
the  night  you  robbed  the  consumptive  ?  " 

"  No,"  moodily. 

u  It  was  that  paralyzed  old  man  back 
yonder." 

«  DJOS — no|  » 

"  Well,  that 's  who  it  was — him  with 
his  white  hair  an'  his  totterin'  an'  his 
nightgown." 

The  Giant  stopped  his  horse  for  a  min 
ute's  breathing  where  a  little  elevation 
lifted  his  form  against  the  moonlit  sky. 
He  turned  with  one  hand  on  the  beast's 
hip  and  eyed  the  Mexican,  who  stopped 
just  below  him. 

"  Him  that  that  woman's  puttin'  to  bed 
like  a  baby." 

u  Him  no  baby  then,"  as  though  sheep 
ishly  defending  himself. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  not,  considerin'  the 
welt  you  carried  off  on  the  back  o'  your 
head.  If  he  was  n't  such  a  corpse  an* 


9o    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

paralyzed,  he  'd  'a'  recognized  you  to-day 
an'  gone  off  clean  crazy." 

u  Him  no  would  know  me." 

"  There  's  where  you  're  wrong,"  and 
the  Giant  spurred  his  horse  on  again,  and 
the  march  was  resumed.  "  He  run  that 
stage  fer  eight  years,  an'  he  knowed  every 
dog's  son  of  us  like  books." 

u  Him  no  sabe  'bout  me." 

The  Giant  laughed  softly  to  himself. 

41  That's  the  reason  we  was  drunk  at 
Ocate.  He  knowed  us  an'  you  was  new 
to  these  hills  then." 

44  You  's  cowards — you 's  cowards  !  " 

14  That's  discretion,  you  chicken;  that 
ain't  cowardice.  He  knowed  us  an'  he 
did  n't  know  you.  But  he  'd  a'  knowed 
you  again  after  settin'  eyes  on  you  once ; 
no  matter  about  your  mask  an'  the  dark. 
He  was  the  sharpest-eyed  gent  anywheres 
on  the  road  south  o'  Denver  then. 

The  Mexican  rode  on  in  silence  for  a 
moment,  eyeing  the  Giant. 

44  You  wanted  him  kill  me,"  he  said 
presently. 

44  O,  no,  we  did  n't.  We  wanted  you 
to  come  out  jus'  like  you  did,  but  we 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE     91 

did  n't  have  no  idea  you  would.  If  you 
had  n't  been  such  a  coward  you  'd  'a' 
dropped  in  it.  You  did  n't  think  anybody 
seen  you,  did  you?  I  was  drunk  at  Ocate, 
was  I  ?  What  for  did  you  sneak  out  after 
the  stage  was  past  an'  sneak  up  an'  club 
the  consumptive  onto  the  floor  an'  git  the 
drop  on  the  driver  from  behind,  eh  ?  " 

The  Mexican  said  nothing,  but  followed 
along  like  a  cursed  cur. 

"You  could  n't  'a'  held  him  up  in  front, 
could  you  ?  Devil  a  bit,  fer  you  're  a 
Mexican,  the  rottenest  set  o'  people  on 
God's  earth — worse  'n  niggers,  I  '11  be 
cussed." 

"  What  you  leave  it  fer  me  all  'lone, 
then  ?  You  's  cowards  !  " 

"  Because  you  was  new  in  the  gang  an' 
we  wanted  to  see  your  spunk.  The  rest 
of  'em  was  satisfied  with  it — but  I  seen 
the  act  an'  I  knowed  then  you  was  a 
coward,  an'  I  've  knowed  it  ever  since." 

u  Pete  shy  off.  Him  no  would  go  that 
night.  Him  coward." 

"  There  ain't  a  drop  o'  coward  blood  in 
Pete  an'  you  know  it,  if  he  does  git  the 
sulks." 


92    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  Pete  say  nothin'  an'  sneak  off  dam 
'fraid." 

The  Giant  laughed  scornfully  to  himself. 

"  Afraid  o'  nothin'.  Pete  'd  hold  up  the 
devil — an*  do  it  in  front  too.  As  fer 
sayin'  anything,  he  never  did  say  anything. 
Pete  's  the  silentest  man  in  the  business. 
An'  he  always  shied  off  from  that  Ocate 
stage-road.  I  never  could  git  him  to  tackle 
it.  He  'd  walk  to  the  Vegas  road  an'  hold 
up  the  Baldy  mail  afoot  before  he  'd  go  a 
dozen  steps  fer  the  Ocate  stage.  Some 
how  he  hated  that  road.  Afraid,  eh  ? 
Never  had  none  o'  that  in  him — you  had 
it  all.  It  was  him  that  first  shied  off  an* 
left  the  job  fer  you  an'  argued  fer  the 
tryin*  o'  your  spunk,  but  there  's  no  afraid 
in  long-eyed  Pete." 

There  was  silence  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  the  Giant  meditating  and  the  Mexi 
can  following  along  like  the  cur  still,  while 
the  white  moonlight  dimly  revealed  new 
ravines  to  cross  and  rugged  ways  to  climb. 

"  Yes,  you  'd  'a*  swallered  bullets  that 
job,  if  you  had  n't  sneaked  up  behind," 
mused  the  Giant  again,  after  a  while.  u  Fer 
that  old  man's  eyes  was  like  buzzard's 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    93 

eyes,  an'  he  was  as  quick  as  forked  light- 
nin',  by  the  Eternal — him  that 's  there 
now — same  old  man — with  his  whiskers 
white  like  that  moonshine,  an'  his  eyes 
wanderin',"  continuing  dreamily  to  himself, 
u — wanderin' — an'  that  graveyard  voice  o' 
his,  an'  his  nightgown,  an'  John's  wife 
tendin'  to  him  like  a  baby — jus*  like  a 
little  baby." 

Two  hours'  farther  ride,  for  the  most 
part  in  silence,  and  it  was  near  midnight. 
The  moon,  near  the  zenith,  still  shone 
brightly.  The  trail  now  wound  about  the 
base  of  a  huge  cliff  and  suddenly  started 
up,  through  a  broken  gorge,  toward  the 
top  of  a  bald  peak.  It  became  less  of  a 
road,  very  narrow  and  rugged,  precipitous, 
and  flanked  by  shrubs  and  rocks. 

The  horses  breathed  more  heavily  as 
the  ascent  grew  steeper  and  the  atmos 
phere  rarer.  There  were  cliffs  on  either 
side  now,  a  sort  of  narrow,  gigantic  aisle 
with  a  still  cataract  of  rocks  down  be 
tween,  making,  or  marring,  the  path.  Now 
and  then  the  Giant,  as  he  rose  higher  and 
higher  above  the  regions  they  had  trav 
ersed,  turned  his  head  and  looked  back 


94    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

through  the  aisle  between  the  cliffs  into 
the  distance,  where  scores  of  miles  of 
mesas  and  prairie  lay  jumbled  together  in 
moonlight.  The  Mexican  looked  stupidly 
at  his  horse's  head. 

An  hour  of  this  and  they  approached 
the  top.  Just  where  the  cliffs  began  to 
relent  and  join  the  summit  of  the  cataract 
of  rocks  and  flow  into  each  other,  the 
Giant  stopped  and  whistled.  The  signal 
echoed  faintly  behind,  and  in  front  a  light 
breeze  carried  it  on  among  the  pines  of 
the  summit — three  short  notes  with  a 
longer  one  an  octave  lower.  A  sound,  as 
of  some  one  suddenly  breaking  twigs  by 
starting,  came  faintly  from  above,  several 
hundred  feet  away.  The  Giant  listened 
a  moment  and  repeated  the  whistle.  He 
got  for  answer  a  weird  cry  like  the  cry  of 
a  u  pinonero,"  repeated  three  times. 

"  That 's  Pete,"  said  he. 

The  horses  were  spurred  on  again  and 
entered  a  little  mountain  park,  like  a  roll 
ing  lawn,  a  hundred  yards  square,  and  al 
most  surrounded  by  rocky  elevations.  Pine 
trees  here  and  there  converted  the  lawn 
into  a  grove.  The  earth  was  covered 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    95 

with  a  soft  sward,  and  rocks  on  all  sides 
gave  the  place  an  air  of  snugness.  The 
moonlight  revealed  two  horses  picketed  at 
the  farther  end,  their  heads  now  suddenly 
erect,  staring  at  the  intruders.  The  almost 
dead  embers  of  a  fire  blinked  a  little  in  the 
shadows  of  some  shrubs. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  a  deep  voice 
from  near  the  fire,  and  a  form  arose,  ob 
scuring  the  light. 

"  Lebi,  of  course — an'  me,"  said  the 
Giant,  as  the  two  rode  forward. 

"  O  —  I  knew  it  was  you,"  replied 
Laskins,  to  whom  the  deep  voice  belonged. 
"  What  in  the  devil's  name  are  you  doing 
here? " 

The  Giant  laughed  a  little  to  himself. 

"  You  do  n't  suppose  I  've  forgot  my 
trade,  do  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No ;  but  you  Ve  turned  too  devilish 
white  for  this  kind  of  thing,  both  of  you." 

"  Do  n't  be  too  sure  o'  that.  Cuss 
white  livin',  anyhow.  It's  damn  tire 
some." 

Laskins  eyed  him  with  a  suspicion  not 
visible  in  the  dim  light.  The  Mexican, 
behind,  said  nothing,  but  followed  the 


96    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

Giant's  example  in  picketing  his  horse. 
The  two  returned  to  the  fire  and  threw 
their  great  saddles  upon  the  ground. 

"  Where  's  Pete  ?  "  said  the  Giant,  as  he 
looked  about  him.  The  Mexican  mean 
while  crouched  silently  by  the  fire  and 
warmed  his  hands. 

Laskins  said  nothing,  but  moved  toward 
the  embers,  where  his  blanket  lay. 

"  Where  's  Pete  ?  "  repeated  the  Giant. 

"  He  's  over  there  on  that  rock,"  said 
Laskins, pointing  carelessly  with  his  thumb. 

"  Pete  !  "  called  the  Giant. 

No  answer. 

"  Pete  !  " 

"  Well.'*  The  word  came,  accented 
with  a  little  impatience,  from  the  rock. 

The  Giant  walked  to  the  spot. 

"  What  in  the  name  o'  holy  mass  is  the 
matter  with  Pete  ?  "  he  said  half  aloud. 

Where  the  moonlight  fell  full  on  a  huge, 
square  rock,  was  revealed,  half  lying  upon 
its  summit,  his  chest  down  and  one  hand 
supporting  his  head,  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  appeared  not  tall,  lithe,  almost  slender, 
but  powerful.  His  face  was  in  the  shadow 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    97 

of  his  sombrero.  He  lay  still,  looking 
down  along  the  side  of  the  rock. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Pete  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  without  moving. 

«  Sick  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Got  the  dumps,  eh  ?  You  're  the 
moodiest  man  in  the  business.  Anything 
wrong  ?  " 

"  No,  no — of  course  not."  He  still 
lay  in  the  same  position,  not  even  turning 
his  head  toward  the  questioner. 

"  You  knowed  it  was  me,  did  you  ? " 
said  the  Giant.  "  Have  n't  forgot  the  old 
whistle  ?  " 

"  You  heard  me  answer,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

The  Giant  stood  looking  at  him  a  mo 
ment,  and  turning,  went  back  to  the  fire, 
which  the  Mexican  had  by  this  time  stirred 
into  a  small  blaze.  Laskins  was  sitting 
beside  it  also. 

u  What 's  the  matter  with  Pete  now  ?  " 
queried  the  Giant,  taking  his  seat  beside 
the  others. 

u  O,  Lord  knows,"  said  Laskins  with 
a  sort  of  uneasy  impatience.  "  What  al 
ways  was  the  matter  with  him  ? " 


98    DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

u  Aint  he  got  over  that  yet  ?  " 

"  He  gets  worse.  What  in  the  devil 
are  you  fellows  here  for  ?  "  still  with  sus 
picion  in  his  eyes. 

u  We  're  here,  old  man,"  said  the  Giant, 
u  to  go  back  to  business — that  's  exactly 
what  we  're  here  for.  Damn  bein'  civil 
ized  !  They  're  against  us,  every  man's 
son — there  's  nothin'  in  it.  I  'm  dead  sick 
o'  bein'  a  Sunday  school  man,  anyhow. 
I  'm  ready  fer  business,  right  now — how 
about  you,  Lebi  ?  " 

"  Me  all  ready — dam  Sun'  school  man ! " 
said  the  iMexican,  moodily. 

Laskins  looked  quickly  from  one  to  the 
other  and  back  again.  His  eyes  were 
sharp  and  small  for  one  of  his  huge  frame, 
and  long  custom  had  put  them  forever  on 
the  alert.  Apparently  he  was  not  quite 
satisfied. 

"  Where  you  been  all  this  time  ?  " 

"Santa  Fe  —  Vegas  —  Lord  knows 
where.  Denver  once.  Been  punchin' 
cows  an'  drivin'  teams  an'  a  lot  o'  rot 
business." 

"  What  made  you  quit  ?  " 

"  Could  n't    stand    it — Lord  !  "  with   a 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE    99 

shake  of  his  great  head,  "  could  n't  stand 
it !  It  's  too  slow,  Laskins,"  lowering  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  tone  ;  "  I'll  tell  you 
what,  old  man,  that  kind  o'  business  is  too 
ungodly  slow." 

Laskins  continued  to  ply  him  with  ques 
tions  and  finally  breathed  more  freely. 
The  thing  seemed  clear  enough.  He 
never  had  understood  how  the  Giant  could 
be  satisfied  with  the  ways  of  civilization  ; 
he  had  always  thought  he  would  come 
back.  Laskins  becoming  more  at  ease,  the 
conversation  grew  freer.  Furthermore,  he 
had  good  reason  to  rejoice  at  the  return  of 
the  wanderers. 

"  I  do  n't  know  what  in  the  world  to  do 
with  that  fellow,"  he  said  presently,  low 
ering  his  voice  and  pointing  to  the  rock 
where  Pete  still  lay. 

"  What 's  up  ?  "  asked  the  Giant. 

"  There  was  a  tall  sight  up  —  but  he  's 
knocked  it  in  the  head." 

"  Won't  he  go  ?  " 

"  You  could  n't  lasso  him  and  haul  him. 
He  's  been  that  same  way  for  three  weeks.  I 
had  the  prettiest  job  you  ever  saw  fixed  up 
for  to-morrow  night.  There  's  to  be  a 


ioo  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

thousand  dollars  in  gold  in  the  Ocate 
stage,  and  I  can  't  get  him  to  budge.*' 

u  Lord,  he  never  would  go  after  the 
Ocate  stage  —  did  n't  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  But  it 's  everything  else  alike.  Last 
week  we  had  it  laid  out  to  touch  the  Taos 
mail  —  no  go.  He  wouldn't  stir.  Half 
the  time  he  hangs  around  on  that  rock,  or 
under  a  tree  somewhere.  Oh  —  curse 
such  unsteady  hands,  anyhow  !  I  'm  sick 
and  tired  of  him." 

"  He  's  the  best  man  the  gang  ever  had 
when  his  head  's  straight,"  said  the  Giant. 

u  That 's  the  trouble  of  it ;  the  spoiling 
of  a  work  of  art,  that  's  it  —  the  spoiling, 
by  thunder,  of  a  work  of  art." 

u  Well,  let  him  sulk.  We  three  can 
handle  the  stage  to-morrow  night." 

Laskins's  eyes  lit  up  with  exultation. 
He  chuckled  to  himself. 

"  Ready  right  off,  eh  ?     It  's  a  go." 

"  It 's  a  go,  old  man,"  said  the  Giant, 
nodding  his  head  slowly  and  eyeing  Las- 
kins.  "You're  right,  it's  a  go  —  eh, 
Lebi  ?  " 

u  Me  no  coward,"  said  the  Mexican. 

The  matter   settled,  Laskins    rolled    up 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE   101 

in  his  blanket  and  in  five  minutes  was 
snoring  comfortably.  The  Mexican 
crouched  close  by  the  fire,  warming  his 
hands,  saying  nothing.  For  a  few  min 
utes  the  Giant  sat  still,  staring  at  the  red 
embers  in  a  half  dreamy  way,  and  listening 
to  the  regular  evidence  of  Laskins's  slum 
ber.  Finally  he  arose  and,  leaving  the 
Mexican  by  the  fire,  walked  slowly  through 
the  moonlight  to  the  place  where  Pete's 
form  still  lay  black  against  the  gray  rock. 
The  latter's  position  was  unchanged.  He 
lay  with  chest  down  and  head  raised  on 
one  hand,  looking  at  the  ground  below. 

"  Asleep,  Pete  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Not  sick,  Pete  ?  " 

"  No." 

u  We  're  goin'  after  the  Ocate  stage 
to-morrow  night  —  Lebi  an'  me  have 
come  back  to  the  business.  Goin'  with 
us  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  It 's  a  devil  of  a  fine  job  —  a  thousand 
dollars  in  gold.  Not  many  passengers 
this  time  o'  year.  Better  go.  It 's  like 
findin'  it." 


102  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  Think  I  'm  afraid,  eh  ?  " 

"  Not  you  —  not  hardly,"  with  a  confi 
dential  laugh.  "  You  afraid  ?  Not 
scarcely,  Pete." 

Silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Look  here,  Pete/' 

Still  silence. 

u  What  on  earth  's  the  matter  with  you, 
anyhow  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Sick  o'  the  business,  eh  ?  " 

Still  no  answer. 

u  Pete,  I  wish  to  the  devil  you  'd  tell  a 
feller  what  's  wrong.  Lord,  ain't  we  all 
hung  by  you  before  this  ?  " 

"  You  've  been  all  right,"  said  Pete. 

"  Ain't  we  all  been  like  a  family,  Pete 
—  ain't  we?" 

No  answer. 

u  Ain't  we  been  proud  o'  you,  Pete,  an* 
made  a  heap  o'  you,  an'  ain't  the  thing 
paid  ?  " 

Pete  moved  a  little  uneasily. 

"  It  ain't  your  conscience,  is  it,  Pete  ?  " 

The  silent  man  rested  his  head  on  his 
closed  fist. 

u  Conscience,  eh,  Pete  ?  "     • 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  103 

Still  no  answer  ;  Pete  still  looking  along 
the  edge  of  the  rock  to  the  ground  below, 
the  moon  casting  the  shadow  of  a  waving 
pine  twig,  like  a  finger,  across  his  face. 

«  H'm  —  "  said  the  Giant,  "  sick  o'  the 
business  !  " 

With  his  feet  apart  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  he  stood  silently  watching  Pete. 
Neither  moved.  One,  two,  three  minutes 
went  by.  Four  minutes,  and  Pete  sighed 
a  little  to  himself.  Then  he  turned  his 
face  toward  the  Giant,  raised  his  head 
from  his  fist,  rested  his  hand  on  the  rock, 
slowly  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  still  lean 
ing  on  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  by  God  ! "  he  cried  suddenly, 
his  voice  suppressed  so  that  it  sounded 
deep.  u  Sick  o'  the  business  —  sick  o' 
the  whole  hellish  business  !  Look  here 
—  you've  known  me  a  long  while  —  you 
know  I  'm  no  chicken-hearted  coward. 
You  Ve  been  kind  o'  good  to  me  all  this 
time,  for  I  was  younger  than  you  fellows. 
I  might  as  well  tell  you."  His  voice  be 
came  more  excited,  though  even  lower, 
and  his  eyes  shone.  There  was  an  odd 
expression  about  the  mouth. 


104  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

"  Three  weeks  ago  we  robbed  the  Baldy 
mail.  You  never — you  never — heard  me 
say  anything  about  my  havin' — a  father 
hereabouts,  did  you?  He  used  to  drive  the 
Ocate.  Lord  God,  I  wish  he  was  there 
yet!"  He  rubbed  his  forehead  with  his 
free  hand  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  You  know  the  Baldy  road — it  was 
there  where  the  trail  turns  off  to  Romero's 
place.  I  can  see  it  now,  I  can.  Lord 
God !  I  can  see  it  now!  There  was  n't 
no  light  much,  and  I  was  to  take  her  in 
front  and  Laskins  was  behind.  She  pulled 
down  the  trail  with  one  of  her  lights  out, 
and  I  could  n't  see  plain.  The  rocks  come 
up  there  high  on  both  sides — you  know. 
We  were  behind  'em,  and  when  she  got 
opposite  we  jumped  out  and  stopped  her. 
I  could  n't  see  what  Laskins  was  doin' — 
Lord  knows  I  could  n't  see  nothin'  well. 
The  driver  come  at  me  over  the  horses' 
hips  with  the  butt  of  a  Winchester — the 
thing  surely  was  n't  loaded.  The  off  horse 
began  plungin',  and  there  were  two  men 
inside  screamin'.  I  saw  the  driver  raise  up 
again,  and  somehow  I  did  n't  want  to  shoot. 
There  was  n't  a  minute  to  stop,  and  I 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  105 

jumped  onto  the  doubletrees  and  came  up 
at  him,  grabbin'  his  wrist  with  my  left 
hand,  and  gave  him  a  blow  with  the  butt  o* 
my  gun  on  the  side  of  his  head.  God  !  1 
can  hear  him  groan  yet,  and  he  kind  o' 
crushed  all  up  together,  and  rolled  off  limp 
as  a  rag  right  on  top  o'  me,  knockin'  me 
down.  I  knew  it  then — I  can't  tell  how, 
but  I  knew  it  then.  Something  in  the  feel 
of  him,  maybe,  while  I  was  crawlin'  out 
from  under  him,  or  his  hair  rubbin'  on  my 
face,  or  maybe  the  way  he  groaned — Lord 
God  knows  what,  but  I  knew  him. 

"  I  could  n't  think  o'  nothin'  else.  I  got 
up  and  he  lay  there  in  the  road.  I  felt 
dazed,  kind  o',  and  I  went  and  got  the  light. 
I  guess  Laskins  had  fixed  the  passengers, 
and  was  gettin'  the  mails.  I  came  back 
kind  o'  shaky  in  my  knees,  and  came  near 
fallin'  on  him  again.  I  took  and  turned 
his  head  around  so  as  his  face  was  up. 
Somehow  I  could  n't  bear  to  turn  the  lan 
tern  on  it — O  God!  God!  After  awhile 
standin'  there,  not  darin'  to  look,  got 
worse  'n  lookin',  and  I  shut  my  eyes  first 
and  turned  the  lantern  round,  and  got  down 
on  my  knees  beside  him.  Then  I  looked, 


106  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

and  the  blood  was  runnin'  down  his  cheek 
and  his  eyes  were  starin',  half-open.  It 
was  him.  I  did  n't  know  no  more  till  I 
came  to  in  the  scrub-oak,  up  on  the  mesa, 
where  Laskins  dragged  me.  Laskins  had 
the  money,  and  the  stage  was  gone,  and 
the  passengers  had  took  the  old  man  off- 
Lord  knows  where — Lord  knows  where!" 

His  voice  had  grown  almost  monotonous. 
He  sat  quite  still  when  he  had  finished, 
leaning  on  his  hand,  looking  out  across  the 
grove.  Presently  he  shuddered. 

u  I  can  see  him  now — I  can  see  him 
now!  "  His  hand  wandered  through  the 
air  as  though  tracing  out  the  scene;  his 
fingers  looked  long  and  powerful  and,  due 
to  the  moonlight,  white.  "  O  my  God! 
I  can  see  him  now!" 

He  sank  back  on  the  rock  and  rested 
his  forehead  on  both  hands. 

The  Giant  watched  him  in  silence,  his 
hands  still  in  his  pockets,  his  feet  still 
apart.  Presently  he  spoke  : 

"  Pete." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  You  don't  reckon  you  killed  him,  do 
you  Pete?  " 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE   107 

A  shudder  shook  the  form  on  the  rock, 
but  there  was  no  sound. 

"  No,  now  Pete,  you  do  n't  want  to 
think  that." 

The  Giant  shifted  his  weight  a  little  to 
the  right  foot,  and  hung  a  thumb  nervously 
in  his  vest  pocket.  After  a  moment  more 
of  silence  he  spoke  again: 

"  'Cause  you  see  it  ain't  likely." 

Pete  kept  his  head  on  his  hands  and  said 
nothing.  The  Giant  shifted  to  the  other 
foot,  and  worked  his  fingers  nervously. 

"  It  'd  take  a  mighty  oncommon  lick  like 
that,  you  know,  Pete." 

Stillness  again  for  a  little  while  with  the 
finger  of  shadow  across  Pete's  face. 

"  You  know  it  might  'a'  jus'  stunned 
him,  Pete.  It  might 'a' — "  The  Giant 
paused  hesitating.  He  was  still  more  un 
easy  in  manner.  Several  minutes  went  by 
with  no  change  in  either. 

"  'Cause  a  man  like  him  's  tough,  Pete 
— it  ain't  no  ways  likely." 

No  move  from  the  figure  on  the  rock, 
and  another  pause. 

"  It  might  'a'  jus'  kind  o'  laid  him  up  a 


io8  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

little,  you  know.  Pshaw!  'taint  no  ways 
likely,  Pete,  sure  now." 

The  Giant  began  to  feel  an  unusual 
perspiration  on  his  forehead. 

u  Why,  you  know  that  feller  at  Wagon 
Mountain — Lord,  you  know  we  all  beat 
him  up  like  that,  an'  it  jus'  made  him  sick 
a  little." 

Pete  twisted  somewhat  and  clenched  one 
of  his  hands  slightly  under  his  head. 

"  'Cause  an*  old  man  what 's  been  drivin' 
stages  that  long 's  tough,  Pete — mighty 
tough." 

But  it  seemed  Pete  was  beyond  answer 
ing. 

"  He  's  bein'  took  care  of  somewheres 
— you  can  'low  on  that." 

The  Giant  somehow  found  it  equally 
hard  to  go  on  and  to  stop.  After  another 
pause : 

"  Some  woman  now,  likely.  They  must 
V  all  knowed  him — Lord,  any  amount  of 
'em.  Some  woman." 

He  turned  about  slowly,  and  looked  out 
of  the  opening  where  the  road  came  up, 
into  the  moonlight.  Then  he  glanced  at 
the  horses,  then  at  the  fire,  where  Laskins 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE   109 

still  snored,  and  the  Mexican  still  crouched 
in  a  black  heap  by  his  side.  Something  as 
near  a  sigh  as  the  Giant  had  known  for 
many  a  year  escaped  him.  With  a  last 
look  at  Pete,  who  had  not  moved,  he 
walked  slowly  toward  the  fire. 

"  'T  aint  no  use,"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  opposite  the  Mexican,  who 
was  looking  all  the  while  into  the  embers. 
A  half-hour  went  by  in  perfect  silence, 
save  for  the  breath  of  the  night  air  in  the 
pines.  Again  the  Giant  arose  and  walked 
noiselessly  to  the  rock.  Pete's  head  had 
turned  a  little  to  the  side,  and  his  form  had 
relaxed.  The  Giant  stooped  and  heard  his 
regular  breathing.  He  had  gone  to  sleep, 
in  spite  of  the  thing  that  hung  in  his 
mind. 

The  Giant  re-crossed  the  little  park,  and 
sat  down  by  the  fire,  watching  the  embers. 
The  Mexican  had  not  moved,  but  sat  op 
posite.  Perhaps  ten  minutes  they  sat  thus, 
facing  each  other.  The  perspiration  was 
thicker  on  the  Giant's  brow  now.  His 
lips  twitched,  and  his  eyes  looked  a  little 
haggard.  As  for  Lebi  his  silence  was  in 
scrutable.  He  might  have  been  likened  to 


no  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

some  silent  vulture  waiting.  Presently  it 
seemed  to  the  Giant  that  he  must  speak  or 
cry  out.  The  silence  was  ghastly. 

"They're  both  asleep,"  he  whispered 
to  the  Mexican,  eyeing  him  across  the 
fire. 

Lebi  nodded. 

The  Giant  waited  another  minute.  He 
was  actually  trembling,  and  two  drops  of 
cold  perspiration  ran  down  his  forehead. 
He  clenched  his  fists,  struggling  to  keep 
his  composure  before  the  Mexican. 

"  Which  one?  "  he  whispered. 

Lebi  pointed  his  finger  at  Laskins. 

Again  the  Giant  sat  silent.  His  face 
was  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  God  !  he 
must  end  this  or  shriek  out  into  the  night. 
What  devil  had  entered  him — him,  the 
always  cool — at  this,  one  of  the  smallest 
of  his  many  deeds  ?  God!  somehow  he 
had  not  thought  it  would  be  anything  like 
this.  Finally  he  shook  his  head  at  Lebi 
and  whispered  : 

«  No— I  Ml  take  Laskins !  " 

Lebi  silently  demurred.  The  Giant 
grew  hot,  and  whispered  again  with  fever 
ish  hoarseness : 


DRIVER  OF   THE  OCATE   in 

"  You  cussed  Mexican — take  Pete — I 
won't — God  !  I  won't — you  've  got  to 
take  Pete !  Git  up  !  " 

A  minute  more  of  silence  and  Lebi 
arose  doggedly,  fingering  his  weapon,  and 
started  across  the  grove  toward  the  rock. 

"  At  the  last  note  o'  the  whistle  !  " 
whispered  the  Giant,  and  himself  stiffly 
arose. 

He  stood  near  Laskins,  whose  breath 
ing  was  still  deep  and  regular,  and  watched 
the  Mexican  nearing  the  rock.  He  could 
make  out  Pete's  form,  stretched  in  sleep 
in  the  moonlight.  He  found  himself  trem 
bling  violently,  scarcely  able  to  get  his  re 
volver  from  his  belt.  The  perspiration 
was  oozing  from  his  face,  cold  and 
clammy.  It  was  several  minutes  after  he 
saw  the  Mexican  stop,  ready  at  the  rock, 
before  he  finally  passed  a  hand  across  his 
eyes  and  stooped  over  the  sleeping  figure 
by  his  side — still  watching  Lebi. 

Meanwhile  the  Mexican  had  reached 
the  rock,  stooped,  and  felt  Pete's  breath 
come  and  go  against  his  cheek.  The 
shadow  of  the  pine  finger  was  just  across 
his  mouth  now,  and  waved  over  the  full 


ii2  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

lips.  One  of  his  hands  was  still  clenched. 
His  sleep  seemed  light.  The  Mexican 
placed  the  muzzle  of  his  weapon  close  to 
the  sleeper's  temple  and  waited.  His  hand 
did  not  shake. 

The  first  three  notes  of  the  signal  came 
low  and  clear  across  the  grove,  and  Pete 
stirred  a  little  in  his  sleep.  The  longer 
note,  an  octave  lower,  was  accompanied 
by  two  shots,  almost  simultaneous,  and  the 
silence  of  the  night  remained  as  before. 

Ill 

The  evening  breeze  from  the  prairie 
was  blowing  about  the  little  adobe  hut 
and  there  were  remnants  of  a  gorgeous 
sunset  over  the  mesas.  The  old  French 
man  had  wandered  out  and  milked  the 
cow,  thrown  some  hay  to  the  horses  in 
the  adobe  stable,  and  was  now  standing 
by  the  kitchen  stove  watching  the  woman 
cook  chile.  The  boy  had  picketed  his 
horse  a  little  farther  away  for  the  night 
than  it  had  been  picketed  for  the  day,  spent 
a  few  moments  in  imitating  coyotes  down 
the  meadow,  howled  a  little  on  his  own 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  113 

account  because  everything  else  seemed  so 
still,  called  the  dogs  after  him,  and  returned 
to  the  house.  Presently  it  would  be  night. 

There  was  a  little  high  window  oppo 
site  the  kitchen  door,  looking  out  to  the 
rear  along  the  trail  toward  the  mountains. 
The  old  Frenchman,  being  tall,  was  the 
only  member  of  the  family  who  could  see 
anything  through  it,  other  than  the  rem 
nants  of  sunset.  He  stood,  with  the  never- 
absent  stoop  of  his  high  shoulders,  facing 
the  window.  His  hands  were  in  his  pock 
ets,  and  he  occasionally  transferred  his 
gaze  from  the  chile  to  the  trail  without, 
absent-mindedly. 

There  came  two  spots  over  the  last  rise 
at  the  horizon.  The  immovable  old 
man  made  no  remark,  but  calmly  watched. 
The  two  spots  grew  larger  and  became 
two  horses  with  riders,  trotting  the  dull, 
slow  trot  of  the  prairies.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  and  they  were  near  enough  for  John's 
prairie-trained  French  eye  to  recognize 
them.  Still  he  looked  calmly  out  and 
said  nothing.  The  woman  busied  herself 
about  the  stove,  and  the  boy  played  with 
the  dogs  in  the  dining-room  under  the 


ii4  DRIVER  OF  T1IK  OCATE 

table.  There  was  something  like  a  large  bag 
tied  across  the  horse,  in  front  of  each  rider, 
with  stiff  ends  not  so  much  hanging  down 
as  protruding  on  each  side.  On  coming 
closer  the  bags  became  blankets  with  con 
tents  well  wrapped  up. 

The  dogs  both  being  occupied  under 
the  table,  the  approach  of  the  travelers 
attracted  the  attention  only  of  the  long 
Frenchman.  The  two  drew  up  behind 
the  house,  not  being  able  to  see  through 
the  window,  thinking  themselves  unno 
ticed.  The  Giant  dismounted,  and  the 
Mexican  followed  his  example.  The  two 
horses  were  tied  to  the  post  of  an  almost 
extinct  corral,  only  a  few  yards  from  the 
window.  The  two  riders  stopped  and 
talked  close  together  a  moment  and  seemed 
to  parley,  pointing  to  the  house.  In  a 
moment  they  walked  stolidly  round  the 
end  of  the  hut,  the  Giant  leading  the  way. 
Meanwhile  the  horses  stood  with  drooped 
heads — the  stiff  things  still  across  their 
backs. 

"  O,  it  's  you,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  French 
man,  with  his  slow  drawl  and  in  no  par 
ticular  tone  of  voice,  as  the  Giant's  huge 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  115 

form  loomed  outside  the  door.  The  Giant 
stooped  and  entered,  and  Lebi  followed. 
Maggie  said  a  hasty  "  Gtm'tsta?"  and  kept 
at  her  work,  eyeing  the  men  now  and  then 
with  no  excess  of  good  grace. 

The  Mexican  took  a  drink  from  the 
water-bucket  and  went  out  and  sat  on  the 
wood-pile  with  his  knees  up  close  to  his 
face. 

"  Come  into  the  front  room  a  minute, 
can't  you,  John?  "  said  the  Giant,  leading 
the  way  without  further  hesitation.  The 
old  man  followed  leisurely.  They  passed 
through  the  dining-room,  where  the  boy 
eyed  them  curiously,  on  into  the  so-called 
sitting-room — a  name  brought  out  of  a 
dimly  remembered  better  civilization. 
They  sat  down,  and  the  old  man  stretched 
out  his  long  legs,  with  the  trousers  caught 
up  over  the  backs  of  his  shoes,  calmly  lit 
his  pipe,  and  smoked,  looking  with  no  ex 
pression  at  the  Giant. 

"It  's  done,  John,"  said  the  Giant. 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  John  between  puffs, 
in  his  almost  gentle,  quiet  voice. 

u  We — we  did  n't  have  no  trouble." 

The    Frenchman    smoked   on,   settling 


u6  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

himself  more  comfortably  and  at  fuller 
length  in  his  chair. 

"  Lord,  though,  it  was  n't  the  most 
comfortable  job  I  ever  done,  somehow," 
continued  the  Giant.  The  Frenchman 
still  watched  him  with  no  particular  ex 
pression  of  countenance. 

"They're  out  there,"  said  the  Giant 
presently,  pointing  with  his  thumb. 

"  I  seen  'em,"  replied  the  Frenchman. 

"  Carryin'  one  apiece,"  continued  the 
Giant,  after  several  minutes.  The  French 
man  silently  puffed  out  clouds  of  smoke. 

"  Well  wrapped  up,"  said  the  Giant. 

The  two  sat  still  for  quite  a  while. 

"John,"  said  the  Giant,  "it's  a  long 
piece  to  Wagon  Mountain." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Frenchman;  "  a  pretty 
long  piece." 

"  Mus'  be  thirty  mile,  ain't  it,  John?  " 

"  Twenty-six,  seven." 

"Seems  twice  that  long  in  the  night." 

Still  the  Frenchman  puffed  calmly  at  his 
pipe. 

"  Lord,  John,"  said  the  Giant  suddenly, 
"  I  could  n't  stand  it!  " 

"Stand  what?" 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  117 

"Ridin'  with  him  that  way  all  night." 

The  Frenchman  smiled  the  large,  calm 
smile  that  somehow  made  use  of  his  huge 
French  nose,  and  puffed  away. 

"  There 's  something  got  into  my 
nerves,  John — I  could  n't  stand  it.  Seein' 
him  in  front  that  way,  with  the  moon  on 
him — Lord !  I  'd  see  him  plainer  'n  if  there 
was  n't  no  blanket." 

"Which  one?" 

"  Pete." 

"Swap,  then." 

"  No,  the  cussed  Mexican  shan't  touch 
him.  Besides,  it  'd  be  the  same  with  him 
wrapped  up ;  it  'd  be  Pete  anyhow  in  the 
night  that  way!  " 

John  made  no  answer. 

u  Can't  do  it,  John.  I  'd  do  it  devilish 
quick — but  Lord  !  all  night,  an'  the  moon, 
an'  the  prairies  dead  as  graveyards,  an'  the 
coyotes  screamin'  like  dyin'  babies — 
Lord  !  " 

"  Want  to  stay  here,  eh  ?  " 

"  We  could  put  'em  out  in  the  stable." 

"  You  know  I  ain't  nothin'  to  do  with 
this  thing,  and  do  n't  in  no  ways  approve." 

"  I  know  it,  John,  but  a  tough  old  hoss 


u8  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

like  you  ain't  goin*  to  stand  on  cere 
monies.  Besides,  it  's  the  order  o'  the 
law." 

"  It  's  a  rotten  piece  of  business." 

"  Lord,  it 's  all  rotten." 

The  Frenchman  thought  a  moment. 

u  Well,  it  ain't  nothin'  to  me.  I  've 
slept  with  'em  worse  'n  that.  It  's  the  old 
woman.  She  'd  raise  a  heap  of  trouble — 
she  's  sensitive." 

"  Maybe  she  won't  find  it  out — jus'  till 
early  mornin',  John — jus'  till  the  sun 
clears  the  ungodly  moonshine  a  little. 
Anyhow,  you  can  talk  her  around.  I 
can't  go  on,  John — I  can't,  honest." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while,  the 
Frenchman  meditating. 

"You  can  talk  her  around,  John." 

After  a  few  moments  more  of  medita 
tion  the  Frenchman  slowly  arose,  stretched 
his  stiff  legs,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  and  swung  himself  out  to  the 
kitchen.  He  stood  for  some  time  talking 
to  his  wife  in  a  low  voice. 

Meanwhile  the  night  had  descended, 
and  the  early  moon,  already  a  little  above 
the  horizon,  was  pouring  yellow  light 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  119 

across  the  meadow  and  the  prairies.  The 
horses,  standing  back  of  the  kitchen  win 
dow,  cast  long  shadows. 

Maggie  had  left  the  paralytic  asleep  in 
his  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen. 
No  one  heard  him  walking  unsteadily 
across  the  floor  in  his  stocking  feet,  wan 
dering  about  the  room,  fumbling  at  the 
outer  door,  going  out  into  the  night.  The 
night  breezes  caught  the  white  gown  and 
fluttered  it  about  his  thin  legs.  His 
wrinkled  old  hands  were  stretched  out, 
nervously  groping ;  his  white  hair  and 
beard  glistened  in  the  moonlight  as  he  tot 
tered,  muttering  to  himself,  round  the  end 
of  the  house.  He  stood  a  moment,  his 
form  bent,  his  paralyzed  brain  trying  to  re 
call  its  forgotten  purpose.  His  eye  lit  at 
last  upon  the  horses.  The  moonlight  dis 
closed  their  unusual  burdens.  Unsteadily 
the  old  man  tottered  toward  them. 

John,  inside,  was  startled  as  he  heard  his 
voice  close  beneath  the  window,  mumbling 
and  guttural :  u  Whuzz'a — whuzz'a — 
whuzz'a — ",  the  old  blasted  interrogatory. 

The  Frenchman  stood  for  a  moment, 
unable  to  tell  whence  the  sounds  came. 


iio  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

Then  both  he  and  Maggie  darted  out  of 
the  door  and  started  round  the  hut.  They 
had  but  turned  the  first  corner  when  a 
hoarse  scream  startled  the  stillness.  They 
came  to  the  spot  where  he  stood,  half 
fallen  against  one  of  the  horses  ;  clutch 
ing  the  blanket  away  from  the  body,  so 
that  the  moonlight  fell  on  the  face,  the 
full  lips,  the  hole  in  the  temple ;  gasping 
out  a  pitiable  torrent  of  insane  sobs  and 
broken  words;  clutching  his  white  hair 
with  his  thin  hand  ;  staring  wild-eyed  at 
the  face;  and  still  again  screaming  hoarsely. 

At  last,  the  first  time  in  many  days,  he 
uttered  coherent  words.  The  intense  reali 
zation  of  the  fact  burst  the  bond  that  held 
his  tongue: 

"  My  son!  my  son!  my  son! — God! 
—God !  " 

The  darkness  settled  over  his  mind 
again.  He  tottered  back  and  circled  about, 
dazed,  mumbling  to  himself  in  sobs  like  a 
shivering  child  : 

u  Whuzz'a — whuzz'a — whuzz'a — " 

They  took  him  by  the  arms  and  led  him 
back.  The  Giant,  who  had  come  to  the 
corner  of  the  house,  stepped  back  from 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE  121 

before  him,  and,  when  the  three  had  disap 
peared  within,  sat  down  on  the  ground  in 
the  shadow  of  the  hut  and  held  his  head  in 
his  hands.  The  Mexican  had  not  moved. 
He  was  crouched  on  the  wood-pile,  with  his 
knees  up  close  to  his  face. 

The  Frenchman  and  his  wife  were  still 
quieting  the  old  man  within,  when  the 
Giant  arose  and  went  to  the  Mexican  and 
whispered  huskily: 

"  That  's  the  end  of  it  !  " 


"  That  's  the  end  of  it  —  no  more  —  not 
another  step  !  I  'm  goin'  back  to  the 
mountains  !" 

"  Me  no  coward,"  muttered  the  Mexi 
can,  his  black  eyes  glittering. 

"  I  believe  you're  the  devil  —  cussed  if  I 
don't  believe  you  're  the  devil  !  "  still  whis 
pering. 

"  Me  no  coward." 

"  Nor  I  'm  no  hound  of  a  coyote  !  It 
ends  here  —  not  another  touch  o'  them 
bodies  —  me  ner  you  neither  —  I  tell  you  the 
thing  ends  here  !  Come  on  !  " 

The  Mexican  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  Me  no  care,"  he  said   presently,  and 


122  DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE 

the  two  started  for  the  horses.  The  Giant, 
however,  was  stopped  by  John's  voice  call 
ing  him.  After  some  hesitation  he  reluc 
tantly  entered  the  house. 

The  old  man  was  lying  down,  still 
mumbling  to  himself.  Maggie's  eyes  were 
flashing  fire,  but  John's  never-to-be-dis 
turbed  calm  remained  the  same.  For  sev 
eral  minutes  the  Giant  stood  and  looked  at 
the  white  head  on  the  pillow.  It  was  all 
he  could  do  to  keep  from  breaking  through 
the  door  and  running  into  the  night.  He 
shifted  restlessly. 

"  You  swear  you  never  knowed  it?  " 
said  John  presently. 

"  I  swear  it,  John — Lord,  I  do!  I  never 
knowed — I  never  dreamed  of  it  ! ! 

Maggie  smoothed  the  pillow  and  said 
nothing,  and  the  boy  crept  in  and  crouched 
on  the  floor.  Several  minutes  more  went  by. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  to  Wagon  Mountain? " 
queried  John. 

"  I  'm  done  with  it — now  an'  forever! 
No,  sir — I  ain't  goin'  a  step.  The  money  'd 
burn  my  hand!  " 

The  Frenchman  struck  a  light  and 
slowly  lit  his  pipe. 


DRIVER  OF  THE  OCATE   123 

"  We  '11  put  'em  in  yonder  on  some 
beddin'  to-night,  and  in  the  mornin'  we  '11 
bury  'em  decent." 

A  few  minutes  more  of  silence,  with 
the  old  man  still  mumbling,  and  John 
said : 

"  Come  on." 

The  two  men  went  round  the  hut. 
Neither  horses  nor  burdens  were  visible. 
Running  back  to  the  corner  of  the  house, 
a  dim  spot  far  away  toward  the  prairies  on 
the  Wagon  Mountain  trail  told  the  course 
of  the  Mexican. 

"  The  cussed  black  devil !  "  cried  the 
Giant  after  a  moment's  speechless  silence. 

The  Frenchman  puffed  a  long  cloud  of 
smoke  into  the  moonlight. 

"  Like  a  Mexican,"  he  said  calmly. 

"  Rottenest  set  o'  •  people  on  God's 
earth,"  muttered  the  Giant,  "  worse  'n 
niggers,  I  '11  be  cussed  !  " 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF 
SESCA 

¥ 

THESE  things  happened  in  the  old 
days,  some  years  after  John  had 
buried  his  first  wife,  and  before 
Maggie  came  out  of  the  East. 

"  All  alike — sheep-herders,"  said  the 
long  Frenchman.  u  They  get  stupid, 
somehow,  kind  o'  diffused-like  in  the  head. 
It 's  bein'  with  'em  so  much  all  alone  that 
makes  'em  queer.  They  get  just  like  the 
sheep,  for  all  the  world." 

He  was  milking  the  long-horned  cow  in 
the  corral  back  of  the  adobe  house,  and 
the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  mesas. 
Beside  him,  leaning  against  a  post,  stood 
the  young  man  from  the  East. 

"  You  Ve  never  been  sorry  you  took 
him  and  Sesca,  I  suppose  ?  " 

41  Sorry  ?  Lord,  no,  Howard ;  only 
wished  I  could  make  him  ever  come  down. 
124 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  125 

It  ain't  good  for  him  up  there  with  nothin' 
but  the  sky  and  the  sheep.  And  Sesca — " 
He  paused  in  his  milking  and  looked  across 
the  bare  brown  earth  to  the  hut.  u  Sesca 
— why,  she  's  been  most  ever'thing  to  an 
old  man  like  me." 

"  She  's  an  angel !  "  said  Howard,  half 
to  himself,  and  turning  about  restlessly  to 
walk  to  and  fro.  The  old  man  heard  the 
exclamation,  but  made  no  reply,  and  calmly 
proceeded  with  his  work. 

A  young  girl  came  round  the  end  of 
the  house  with  a  basket  upon  her  arm. 
She  was  bare-headed,  and  the  breeze  blew 
her  dark  hair  gently  about  her  face.  She 
came  along  the  path,  which  passed  the  cor 
ral  and  ascended  the  steep  rugged  sides  of 
the  mesa.  Howard  advanced  eagerly  to 
meet  her. 

"  Can't  I  go  with  you  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  I 
want  to  be  with  you  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied;  "  not  this  time. 
Let  me  go  alone — I  want  tell  him  alone. 
Oh  !  "  with  a  hopeless  sigh;  "  I  so  afraid!  " 
Her  voice  held  the  accent  that  had  be 
longed  to  her  mother — Spanish.  Indeed 
there  was  much  of  the  Spaniard  in  her, 


126  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

displaying  itself  chiefly  in  the  depth  of  the 
eyes  and  the  dark  shade  of  the  hair.  Her 
face,  however,  showed  a  whiteness  not  be 
longing  to  the  typical  Spanish  face.  It  was 
relieved  by  a  faint  flush  of  pink  when  she 
spoke. 

She  started  on  up  the  path,  Howard's 
eyes  following  her.  He  was  not  much 
more  than  a  boy,  and  there  was  the  ex 
treme  ardor  of  youth  in  his  gaze.  Some 
anxiety  was  mingled  with  it,  too,  and  once 
he  started  after  her,  but  halted  again  and 
hesitated,  and  finally  returned. 

"Oh!"  he  said  with  anxious  impa 
tience;  "I  don't  want  her  to  have  to  en 
dure  it  alone.  John,"  abruptly,  u  why  in 
the  world  can't  a  fellow  do  everything  he 
wants  to  for  a  woman  ?  He  always  has 
to  stop  short  and  see  her  go  on  alone. 
There  's  a  barrier  that  a  man  can't  pass  i 
she's  that  much  beyond  him — in  a  rarer 
atmosphere,  somehow." 

11  Lord,  now,  you  could  n't  do  no  good 
up  there." 

u  No,  of  course  not.  That 's  what 
hurts." 

u  Natural,  though,"  said  the  old  French- 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  127 

man  meditatively,  "  for  you  to  think  that 
way — restless-like." 

Howard's  eyes  still  followed  the  figure 
up  the  path.  He  sighed. 

u  I  wish — pshaw  !  there  's  any  amount 
of  things  I  wish,  John." 

u  Wishin'  's  a  pleasin'  pastime,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  starting  slowly  toward  the 
house  with  the  milk,  moving  stiffly.  How 
ard  followed  him. 

"  Angel,  eh  ?  "   said  John. 

"  You  know  it  yourself,  John." 

The  two  entered  the  adobe  kitchen, 
where  Nito,  the  old  Mexican  cook,  with 
her  hair  hanging  about  her  swarthy  face, 
was  cooking  supper.  As  they  did  so  there 
were  wafted  down  from  the  far  heights  of 
the  mesa  faint  notes  of  halting  music  from 
the  old  shepherd's  flute,  of  poor  quality,  and 
quavering,  but  not  without  sweetness. 
The  tones  came  gently  over  the  rocks, 
broken  by  the  intermittent  breezes.  How 
ard  stood  a  moment  in  the  door,  as  he  had 
often  done,  and  listened.  It  was  a  small 
part  of  an  old  Moorish  air,  somewhat  wild, 
and  very  sad,  bringing  up  repeatedly  on  a 
long,  plaintive,  descending  note,  with  some- 


ii8  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

thing  of  languor  in  it  and  something  of 
despair. 

Sesca's  path  lay  straight  up  the  mesa, 
very  rugged.  The  mesa  at  this  point  rises 
six  hundred  feet  above  the  valley.  At  a 
little  distance  its  sides  seem  precipitous, 
but  on  climbing  one  finds  them  only  steep, 
save  near  the  top.  Here  a  cliff  rises 
abrupt  to  the  summit  for  fifty  feet,  and 
would  seem  to  baffle  progress.  A  fissure, 
however,  visible  only  on  close  approach, 
lets  the  climber  through,  up  a  narrow,  un 
even  stairs  of  rock  to  the  top. 

Long  practice  had  accustomed  the  girl 
to  the  exercise.  Yet  she  must  needs 
stop  at  times  and  rest  the  basket  on  a 
rock,  or  seat  herself  by  the  rugged  way 
and  look  back.  The  mesas  over  across 
the  valley  were  dropping  lower  as  she 
ascended.  The  hut  far  below  seemed  but 
a  very  tiny  affair  of  dull  brown  in  the 
lighter  brown  of  the  valley,  and  its  streamer 
of  smoke  fainted  in  the  effort  to  rise  as 
high  as  she,  seemingly  before  it  had  started. 
Only  the  mountains  beyond  and  the  sunset 
red  over  them  retained  their  due  propor 
tions.  The  air  was  very  pure  and  clear, 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  129 

and  the  evening  breezes  were  even  stronger 
here,  blowing  her  hair  about  her  face  and 
cooling  the  flush  of  her  cheeks. 

Sitting  on  a  huge  rock  more  than  half 
way  up,  Sesca  could  hear  the  notes  of  the 
Moorish  air  through  the  stillness.  They 
seemed  to  come  from  very  high,  away  up 
in  the  thin  atmosphere,  and  Sesca's  face 
saddened  as  she  heard.  For  a  moment 
she  rested  her  head  upon  her  arms  across 
the  basket. 

"  O, — it  will  not  do  ! "  she  mur 
mured. 

She  arose  again  and  continued  the  as 
cent,  the  broken  notes  sounding  now 
louder,  now  fainter,  as  a  dallying  breeze 
brought  them  to  her,  or  a  mass  of  rock 
shut  them  away.  She  entered  at  last  the 
fissure,  climbed  the  stairs,  and  came  out 
upon  the  summit,  where  the  notes  came 
clear  and  plaintive  across  the  flat. 

The  mesa  was  several  miles  in  cir 
cumference,  like  a  level  and  desolate 
island  high  up  in  a  clear  sea  of  air  and 
sky.  Its  surface  was  broken  by  a  few 
rocks,  and  it  was  fringed  about  the  island 
shores  with  a  thin  growth  of  ragged  pines. 


1 3o  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

All  the  center  was  bare  and  brown,  the 
sparse  grass  failing  to  relieve  the  color. 

The  old  shepherd  sat  upon  a  low  stone 
close  to  the  ground,  with  one  knee  bent 
up  and  his  ancient  flute  to  his  mouth. 
His  dress  was  old  and  worn  and  uncouth. 
His  fingers  upon  the  instrument  were  dark 
and  wrinkled.  Minute  wrinkles,  too, 
covered  the  swarthy,  weather-beaten  face, 
from  which  and  about  which  hung  a  rag 
ged  beard,  black  and  long.  He  stared 
before  him  across  the  backs  of  many  sheep 
that  grazed  over  the  brown  soil,  his  aspect 
partaking  of  the  wildness  of  the  air  he 
played.  Several  sheep  stood  close  about 
him,  and  one  old,  wrinkled  ram  lay  at  his 
feet. 

As  Sesca  approached  he  ceased  his  play 
ing  and  turned  his  face  toward  her.  There 
came  a  sort  of  light  into  his  eyes,  a  light 
of  recognition,  no  doubt  of  pleasure,  but 
his  face  was  still  blank  enough,  and  there 
was  no  smile.  There  was  something  of 
the  expression  of  a  child  about  his  features, 
and  something,  too,  of  wildness.  She 
went  to  him  without  speaking  and  took 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  131 

his  hand,  and  passively  he  arose  and  was 
led  by  her  to  a  little  tent  that  stood  beneath 
a  pine  at  no  great  distance.  Before  this, 
upon  a  cloth  on  the  dry  soil,  she  spread  a 
small  repast  from  the  basket  and  seated 
him  upon  a  stone  beside  it.  She,  her 
self,  sat  upon  the  ground.  The  old  man 
ate  intermittently  and  sparingly,  watching 
the  sheep  in  an  absent  way,  and  following 
their  movements  with  his  eyes.  Two  or 
three  of  them  had  come  closer  and  stood 
several  yards  away,  stupidly  looking  on. 
The  girl  ate  nothing,  but  was  lost  in 
thought,  and  uneasy. 

"  Father,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I — I  want 
tell  you  something." 

The  old  man  turned  his  face  toward  her. 
Something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  awak 
ened  surprise  in  him.  She  caught  the 
new  light  in  his  eyes  and  crept  up  closer 
to  him,  with  her  face  white,  and  suddenly 
bent  her  head  upon  her  hands  and  sobbed. 
Childlike  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  sor 
row,  came  into  his  eyes.  Hesitatingly  the 
wrinkled  hand  arose  and  passed  over  her 
hair. 


132  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

"  Howard,  father — Howard — "  she  said, 
not  raising  her  head,  u  you  know  him — he 
has  been  here — you  remember — " 

u  I  know,  Sesca — I  know,"  he  replied, 
perhaps  something  of  apprehension  dis 
playing  itself  in  the  low  monotone  of  his 
voice. 

"  He  want  take  me  'way,  father." 

Still  she  did  not  raise  her  head.  The 
hand  ceased  to  pass  over  her  hair,  and  was 
still,  across  her  shoulder.  The  old  man 
sat  without  a  motion.  The  seconds  going 
by,  her  sobs  ceased  because  of  the  fear  for 
him.  Still  his  hand  lay  motionless,  and 
she  suddenly  raised  her  head  and  saw  his 
face.  There  was  no  sorrow  nor  reproach 
in  it.  He  was  staring  away  at  the  sheep 
with  his  eyes  wide,  and  the  wild,  lost  look 
strangely  exaggerated.  She  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck  passionately,  and  sunk 
her  face  upon  his  breast. 

u  O,  papa — papa — papa!  "  she  cried, 
"  do  n't  look  so — do  n't  look  so!  I  love 
him  so  much — so  much;  and  surely  you 
can  go! " 

He  was  still  staring  wildly  at  the  sheep. 
The  flock  was  by  slow  degrees  coming 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  133 

closer.  After  a  minute  his  eyes  returned 
to  the  fleecy  forms  near  him,  then  to  the 
edge  of  her  dress  spread  upon  the  ground, 
then  to  her  hair ;  and,  as  though  recollect 
ing,  he  began  to  pass  his  hand  to  and  fro 
over  the  dark  tresses. 

"I  go?"  he  said  blankly  after  a 
moment. 

"  Why  not,  father — why  not? "  she 
cried,  raising  her  face  to  his.  "  Tell  me 
you  will  go!  The  East,  papa,  all  the  big 
East.  How  much  we  used  talk  of  it! 
How  much  I  wanted  go  there — away  from 
where  it  so  lonesome.  Tell  me  you  go! 
I  not  want  to  leave  you." 

He  looked  about  blankly  again,  saw  the 
old  flute  lying  on  the  ground  by  him,  and 
picked  it  up  as  though  to  play,  but  laid  it 
down  again  with  a  helpless  air,  and  stared 
at  the  sheep. 

u  We  go  together,  we  three.  O — he 
love  me  so — he  not  can  leave  me!  You 
will  go!  " 

He  still  stared  about — at  the  little  weather- 
blackened  tent,  at  the  ragged  pines,  at  the 
clear  sea  of  sky  with  the  shadows  of  night 
coming  slowly  into  it,  at  the  rocks  and  the 


1 34  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

brown  earth,  and  at  the  sheep ;  the  wild- 
ness  still  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  sheep,  Sesca,"  he  muttered. 

"  Yes,  yes — I  know.  Uncle  John  take 
good  care  of  them.  He  promise.  He  take, 
O,  such  good  care!" 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  Why — why — "  he  said,  "  leave  'em, 
Sesca? — You  do  n't  mean  leave  'em!  " 

She  saw  the  hopelessness  of  it,  and  laid 
her  head  again  upon  his  shoulder. 

u  Leave  'em,  Sesca?  Why — I  can't — 
I  can't!"  with  a  despairing  wail  in  the 
words.  "  Why,  Sesca,  what'd  they  do?  " 

That  contained  it  all — his  life.  What 
could  they  do  without  him?  Some  of  them 
were  close  to  him  now,  and  he  rubbed  the 
white  fleece  of  one  and  called  its  name  and 
stared  blankly  at  it. 

She  arose  and  walked  aimlessly  about, 
and  returned  and  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  wept,  then  walked  away  again 
and  looked  wet-eyed  at  the  distant  moun 
tains.  Absently  the  shepherd  took  the 
flute  and  started  the  old  air,  but  ceased  in 
the  middle;  and  after  a  pause  started  it 
again,  and  ceased  again. 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  135 

Howard's  face  suddenly  appeared  at  the 
opening  in  the  cliff.  Seeing  Sesca's  grief, 
he  guessed  her  failure,  and  hastened  to  her. 

"  I  could  n't  stay,"  he  said.  "  I  guessed 
this.  I  was  afraid.  I  do  n't  know  what  I 
can  do,  but  I  wanted  to  try." 

"  It  not  any  use,  Howard,"  she  said. 
He  kissed  her  gently,  and  she  sank  down 
on  the  ground  where  she  was,  and  waited. 

The  old  man  was  still  watching  the 
sheep  with  a  dazed  expression.  His  elbows 
were  on  his  knees  as  he  sat  on  the  rock, 
and  his  chin  rested  on  his  hands,  one  of 
which  held  the  flute.  Howard  approached 
and  stood  before  him. 

"  Won't  you  go  with  us  ?  "  he  said. 
"We  want  you  —  Sesca  needs  you.  It 
will  not  be  well  for  you  here  alone ;  I  do 
not  think  you  can  stand  it  at  all." 

After  a  pause  the  shepherd  spoke. 

"  But  the  sheep,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes 
wandering  over  them. 

Howard  watched  them  too,  and  turned 
from  them  to  Sesca,  weeping  yonder  on  the 
ground,  and  back  again  to  the  shepherd. 
He  had  seen  the  strength  of  this  before. 
Finally  the  old  man's  silence  was  again 


136  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

broken.  He  began  speaking  in  his  dull 
monotone,  somewhat  as  though  to  himself. 

"  Sesca  —  Sesca  —  "  he  said.  "I've 
had  her  all  alone,  ever  since  she  was  jus* 
such  a  little  thing.  Since  her  mother 
died.  Used  to  be  she  'd  set  on  my  knee 
of  a  night.  Hair  always  black  like  that 
—  Spanish,  after  her  mother,  an'  talk 
Spanish-like.  I  never  thought  o'  nothin* 
like  this  —  never  thought.  Then,  when 
she  got  bigger,  always  helpin*  round  perty 
an*  fresh-like.  Then  when  we  come  here, 
ever*  evenin'  this  way  —  wasn't  no  use 
to  go  down  — jus'  Sesca  an'  the  sheep. 
Ever*  evenin'.  Why  —  why  —  what '11  I 
do  !  "  a  little  wildly  again;  u  what  '11  we 
do  —  me  an'  the  sheep  !  " 

u  Come  with  us  —  you  won't  have  to 
bear  it.  It  will  be  so  much  better  with 
us!" 

u  Leave  the  sheep  ?  Why  —  no,  you 
do  n't  know  !  Why,  I  cant!  Look  at 
'em  there  now  —  look  at  him  with  his  old 
wrinkled  horns,  and  them  yonder,  and 
this  young  one  here.  Leave  'em  ?  I 
can't  — I  can't!" 

The  last  words  were  a  pitiful  cry,  and 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  137 

the  despair  in  them  showed  Howard  the 
uselessness  of  his  appeal.  He  turned 
away  with  a  criminal  feeling  in  his  heart.  ' 

"  It  has  come  to  the  decision,  Sesca," 
he  said,  as  they  stood  apart  on  the  path, 
with  the  last  glow  of  the  sun  behind  them. 
He  turned  away  from  her,  that  no  expres 
sion  of  his  might  influence  her. 

At  last  she  went  to  her  father,  who  still 
sat  on  the  rock  with  the  silent  flute  in  his 
hands.  She  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck  again  and  cried  for  a  moment. 
Gathering  up  the  contents  of  the  basket, 
she  returned,  and  the  two  started  to  de 
scend.  At  the  fissure  of  rocks  Howard 
pressed  her  close  to  him  with  his  heart 
beating  swiftly,  as  they  turned  for  the  last 
time.  The  shepherd  was  still  seated  in 
the  dusk,  staring  across  the  backs  of  the 
sheep.  With  a  pitiful  little  cry  Sesca 
turned  away,  Howard  still  supporting  her 
with  his  arm,  feeling  the  tremor  of  her 
sobs,  his  own  heart  aching  for  her.  He 
longed  to  lift  her  and  carry  her  down  — 
away  —  out  of  it  all. 

On  the  descent  Sesca  was  weak  with 
grief.  Half-way  down  she  gave  way  and 


138  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

sank  upon  a  stone.  Howard  knelt  beside 
her,  covering  her  face  with  kisses. 

"  It 's  too  much  for  you — too  much  !  " 
he  cried  passionately.  u  O  Sesca,  my 
darling,  why  can't  I  bear  it  for  you?  " 

"  I  bear  it,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  bear  it. 
Only — only — O  Howard,  so  much  I  love 
you  both  !  It  break  my  heart !  " 

He  held  her  closer  and  kissed  the  lips 
and  white  forehead.  She  was  quieter  at 
last,  and  the  tears  were  dried. 

u  The  stage  come  to-morrow  morning  ; 
is  it  not  ?  " 

u  To-morrow ;  yes." 

"  I  want  go  then — I  not  stay  longer  !  " 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  came  at 
last  to  the  house,  though  there  were  hints 
of  the  coming  moon  in  the  east.  As  they 
came  over  the  last  stretch  of  the  path,  there 
floated  down  from  the  mesa  the  faint  tones 
of  the  Moorish  air — but  more  halting  and 
intermittent. 

The  old  Frenchman,  with  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  never-absent  stoop  of  the 
high  shoulders,  awaited  them  at  the  wood 
pile. 

"Just    lookin*  at    the  moonshine  over 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA   139 

there  and  listenin'  to  the  horses  pawin'  in 
the  stable,"  he  said,  half  apologetically. 
His  calm  old  eyes,  however,  observed 
them  narrowly. 

The  three  entered  the  house  in  silence. 
In  silence,  also,  the  old  Mexican  put  the 
supper  on  the  table,  and  silently  they  ate. 
Howard  was  depressed  and  abstracted. 
Sesca's  face  still  held  the  traces  of  tears, 
showing  in  the  lamplight,  and  she  ate  but 
little.  John  watched  them  calmly  by 
turns,  and  meditated  with  no  change  of  ex 
pression  in  his  never-varying  features.  Old 
Nito  ate  busily.  In  silence  still  they  arose. 

John  walked  stiffly  into  the  so-called 
front  room,  and  lit  his  pipe  and  sat  himself 
down  in  the  large  chair  and  smoked. 
Howard  went  out  into  the  night,  and 
walked  to  and  fro  along  the  stage-road 
restlessly.  Some  of  the  light  from  the 
dining-room  shone  in  upon  the  Frenchman, 
and  was  lighting  the  smoke  as  it  curled 
from  his  pipe,  when  Sesca  came  in.  She 
walked  aimlessly  about  the  room,  touching 
and  arranging  little  things  here  and  there, 
while  John's  eyes  followed  her.  Presently 
she  went  to  him  and  knelt  on  the  floor 


i4o  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

with  her  head  on  his  knee.  Gradually 
the  pipe  went  out. 

"Uncle  John?" 

"  What  is  it,  Sesca  ?  " 

"  You  think  I  do  wrong  ?  " 

"  To  leave  him  up  there,  Sesca  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  Frenchman  sighed. 

"  He  could  n't  go,  Sesca — I  knew  it. 
Such  as  him  would  n't  know  anything 
about  leavin'.  Why,  it  'd  be  most  like 
comin'  to  die,  to  him." 

u  I  knew  it — I  knew  it  !  O,  I  so  was 
afraid  !  " 

"  But  he'll  be  all  right,  Sesca." 

u  I  do  n't  know.  I  afraid  not.  He 
love  me  so  much." 

The  Frenchman  looked  out  at  the  lamp 
in  the  next  room,  and  at  the  dishes  and 
the  empty  chairs. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  u  he  loves  you — Lord, 
we  all  love  you." 

"  But  you  know  I  can't  help  to  go, 
Uncle  John — you  know." 

"  I  know,  Sesca." 

"  You  think  I  do  not  right  ?"  still  with 
her  head  on  his  knee. 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  141 

"  No,  no,  child,  it — why,  yes,  it 's 
right."  After  a  pause,  "It's  all  right, 
Sesca." 

uWe  must  go  in  the  morning,  Uncle 
John." 

The  old  man  meditated  a  while  on  this, 
looking  at  her  hair.  He  took  a  lock  of  it 
between  his  stiff  fingers  and  curled  it 
about  them. 

"  Well,"  he  said  calmly,  at  last,  "  I 
reckon  it's  best." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  the  pipe 
dropped  from  his  hand  and  fell  upon  the 
floor. 

"Uncle  John?" 

"What  is  it,  Sesca?" 

"  You — you  miss  me  some,  Uncle 
John  ? " 

"  Lord,  Sesca,  yes — yes  ;  we  '11  miss 
you.  But  an  old  man  like  me  can — can 
stand  it.  Just  an  old  man  like  me.  And 
we  're  glad  to  see  you  happy,  you  know, 
Sesca." 

"  You  been  so  good  to  me — so  good  ! 
I  not  ever  forget !  " 

He  still  fondled  the  lock  of  hair  and 
said  nothing. 


I42  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

"  Uncle  John  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sesca." 

tl  I  know  you  take  such  good  care  of 
him — for  me,  Uncle  John." 

41  I  promise  it,  Sesca — Lord,  yes  ;  I 
promise  it.  Ever'thing  I  can  do,  honey  ; 
do  n't  never  be  afraid  of  that." 

At  last  she  arose  and  he  kissed  her  and 
watched  her  as  she  went  out.  Then  he 
found  his  pipe  again  and  lit  it  and  smoked. 

At  ten  o'clock  they  were  all  in  bed,  the 
packing  having  been  done.  Sesca  occu 
pied  the  front  room,  John  and  Howard 
slept  on  cots  in  the  dining-room,  and  Nito 
was  alone  in  the  room  beyond  the  kitchen. 
John  could  not  sleep,  and  the  restless 
pawing  of  one  of  the  horses  in  the  adobe 
stable  across  the  trail  annoyed  him.  He 
feared  the  animal  had  effected  some 
damage,  and  arose  and  dressed  himself, 
and  went  out.  The  moon  was  up  now, 
and  shining  brightly,  and  the  night  was  very 
white  and  still.  He  found  the  horse  en 
tangled  in  its  rope,  and  was  occupied  some 
minutes  in  releasing  it.  He  came  out  of 
the  stable  again,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  trail. 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  143 

There  came  suddenly  to  his  ears  the 
sound  of  the  flute  from  the  mesa,  plain 
through  the  still  air.  He  was  startled  that 
it  seemed  nearer  than  was  its  wont.  This 
time  the  Moorish  phrase,  still  plaintive 
and  somewhat  wilder,  reached  the  long 
descending  note,  and  the  despair  of  the 
tone  wailed  among  the  rocks  up  the  mesa's 
side.  John  started  in  a  walk,  unusually 
fast  for  him,  along  the  mesa  path.  The 
flute-notes  seemed  nearer  and  nearer  as  he 
approached.  At  last  he  broke  into  a  run, 
and  began  the  steep  ascent. 

He  could  descry  the  figure,  a  black 
spot  high  above  him,  in  the  moonlight. 
A  quarter  of  the  way  up,  and  the  tones 
were  close  at  hand.  John  stopped  to 
breathe,  against  a  rock.  The  path  was 
very  narrow  and  rugged  here,  and  dim  in 
the  night.  Somehow  the  shepherd  had 
lost  it,  and  John  could  see  him  only  a  lit 
tle  distance  away,  coming  down  the  side 
of  the  mesa,  over  the  roughness'  of  un- 
traveled  rocks.  His  gait  was  perilous. 
His  eyes,  even  in  the  moonlight,  shone 
wide  and  wild.  The  night  breeze  blew 
the  black  beard  and  hair  about  his  face. 


H4  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

He  held  the  flute  to  his  lips,  and  was 
playing  the  despairing  notes  over  and  over 
again. 

The  mesa  before  him  sloped  to  the  top 
of  a  boulder  a  dozen  feet  high,  which  the 
path  wound  about.  John  saw  the  danger, 
and  with  a  great  leap  of  his  long  limbs 
started  across  the  broken  space  between. 
The  madman  still  came  on.  In  a  moment 
more  he  had  tripped  and  fallen  over  the 
ledge  to  the  path  beneath.  When  John 
came  to  the  spot,  he  was  lying  in  a  black 
heap,  with  his  face  up,  and  on  his  fore 
head  a  cut  from  a  sharp  rock  was  oozing 
blood.  The  flute  was  still  clutched  in  his 
hands,  but  broken. 

The  Frenchman  knelt  beside  him  and 
tried  to  arouse  him,  but  the  shepherd  was 
unconscious.  After  a  moment  of  rest, 
John  lifted  the  body  in  his  arms,  and  car 
ried  it  laboriously  down  the  mesa  and 
along  the  path  to  the  house.  He  came  to 
the  outside  door  of  Nito's  room,  the  one 
farthest  away  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
and  knocked  gently.  Nito  was  finally 
aroused  without  noise,  and  made  to  dress 
and  open  the  door. 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA  145 

u  Be  just  as  still  as  you  know  how," 
said  John,  entering  with  his  burden. 

The  woman  lit  a  lamp.  She  was  well- 
nigh  overcome  with  stupid  surprise,  though 
still  blinking  with  sleep. 

"  He  fell  down  the  mesa.  Get  the  old 
cot  ready  there,  and  we  '11  put  him  on  it." 

She  obeyed,  and  the  old  man  was 
stretched  out,  John  bending  over  him 
anxiously. 

"  No  dead,"  said  the  Mexican. 

«  Sure?  " 

u  Me  sabe  too  much  'bout  dead  people. 
Him  no  dead." 

«  No,  I  do  n't  think  he  's  dead." 

The  shepherd  opened  his  eyes  and 
stared  glassily  a  moment,  and  sighed  and 
closed  them  again. 

"Sort  o'  faint — 's  all,"  said  John. 
tc  Now  you  want  to  keep  mighty  still — 
hear?  "  He  turned  about  almost  fiercely, 
facing  her  in  the  light  of  the  lamp,  and 
emphasized  the  order  with  a  gesture  of  his 
hand. 

"  Keep  them  doors  shut  tight  and 
locked — now  and  in  the  mornin'.  'T  ain't 
likely  they  '11  want  to  come  in — but  they 


146  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

sha'n't  if  they  want.  He  '11  most  likely  be 
perfectly  still.  And  do  n't  you  so  much 
as  open  your  mouth  about  his  bcin'  here. 
Mind  you — they  ain't  to  know  it — Sabe?  " 

His  meaning  began  to  dawn  on  the 
Mexican. 

u  Me  sabe.      Me  keep  mum,"  she  said. 

The  old  man  was  up  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  as  indeed  were  the  others.  While 
Sesca  and  Howard  were  finishing  prepa 
rations  for  departure  and  Nito  was  cook 
ing  breakfast,  John  went  into  Nito's  room. 

He  came  out  again  after  a  few  mo 
ments,  calmly  locked  the  door,  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  went  to  feed  the 
horses,  smoking  and  meditating.  Break 
fast  was  almost  as  silent  a  meal  as  the 
supper  had  been.  John  tried  once  in  an 
ineffectual  way  to  say  something  to  cheer 
the  party  up,  and  Sesca  made  a  very  weak 
show  of  being  sure  they  would  come  back 
before  long  to  see  them  all  again.  At  last 
the  four-horse  stage  came  rattling  over  the 
stony  trail  from  the  west  and  drew  up  at 
the  well. 

"  I    brought   your  cape  out  of    Nito's 


AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA   147 

room,  Sesca,"  said  John,  standing  about 
awkwardly  watching  the  final  preparations. 
u  I  guess  you  've  got  ever'thing  you  kept 
in  there.  Got  all  your  things  now?  " 

"  All,  I  think,  Uncle  John.  Good-by, 
Nito,"  said  Sesca,  taking  the  swarthy 
hands,  the  tears  beginning  to  show  in  her 
eyes.  "  Good-by,  Uncle  John — good- 
by — good-by ! "  almost  in  sobs  now. 
"  O — you  so  good  to  me  !  I  not  ever 
forget!  " 

They  were  seated,  and  John  had  hugged 
her  close  at  the  step  of  the  stage  and 
lifted  her  in,  and  taken  Howard's  hand  in 
his  own  horny  one,  and  said  a  last  "  God 
bless  you  both!  " 

Sesca's  last  look  was  toward  the  top  of 
the  mesa,  with  its  jagged  rocks  against 
the  morning  sky;  and  as  the  stage  disap 
peared  in  the  distance  they  saw  her  arms 
about  her  lover's  neck  and  knew  that  she 
was  sobbing  with  her  head  upon  his  shoul 
der. 

Nito  started  slowly  into  the  house. 
The  old  man  stood  by  the  well  and  lit  his 
pipe  and  puffed  the  smoke  into  the  still 


148  AT  THE  PASSING  OF  SESCA 

morning  air.  At  last  he  turned  and 
entered  the  kitchen.  His  eyes  wandered 
about  the  room. 

"  Different,  somehow,"  he  said, — "  all 
sort  o'  different.  Well,"  after  a  pause, 
"just  an  old  man  like  me." 

He  puffed  in  silence  for  a  moment 
more. 

41  Was  n't  no  use  bein'  afraid  of  him  in 
there  attractin*  their  attention,  Nito." 

Nito  stopped  in  her  work  and  turned 
about  and  looked  at  John  and  then  at  the 
door  of  her  room. 

"  He  's  dead,"  said  the  Frenchman. 


THE  RACE 


ON  a  day  of  much  sunshine  and  south 
ern  breeze  a  mixed  crowd  of  some 
four  or  five  hundred  persons,  male 
and  female,  went  out  of  the  little  town, 
climbed  a  rise  in  the  southern  trail  that  led 
away  yonder  into  the  blue  sky,  and  gath 
ered  at  the  scene  of  the  coming  race.  The 
course  was  a  straight  one  of  three 
hundred  yards,  measured  out  at  haphaz 
ard  in  the  flat  of  the  prairie.  There  had 
never  been  a  race  j  ust  here  before,  and  prob 
ably  would  never  be  a  race  just  here  again; 
but  the  "  cowhorses  "  were  matched,  and 
the  thing  was  to  be  done.  The  town  was 
left  to  shift  for  itself,  as  dead  as  the  de 
serted  homes  of  the  cliff-dwellers.  Half 
the  men  were  galloping  about  on  mus 
tangs,  the  brims  of  their  sombreros  flap 
ping  in  the  wind,  their  coiled  lassos 
dangling  from  the  saddle-horns. 

Others  of  the   men,  and   some  of  the 
149 


150  THE  RACE 

women,  were  on  foot,  covered  with  dust, 
red  of  visage,  but  more  jovial  than  any 
thing  that  can  be  seen  east  of  the  western 
Kansas  line.  Here  and  there  vehicles  of 
doubtful  age  and  pattern  stood  or  wandered 
about — perhaps  one  two-seated  carriage 
bearing  evidences  of  past  gentility  and 
seemingly  distressed  at  the  happenings  of 
its  old  age  ;  even  "  South  Bend  "  wagons 
alongside  of  prairie-schooners,  dogcarts, 
and  spring-wagons.  The  noise,  the  up 
roarious  laughter,  the  red-faced  shouting 
of  bets,  the  tossing  of  money,  joined  in  the 
making  of  confusion. 

Riding  slowly  down  the  course  came  a 
small  man  upon  a  raw-boned,  gaunt,  roan 
animal.  The  man  was  bare-headed,  with 
loose,  unkempt  hair  straggling  about  his 
ears.  His  face  was  full-cheeked,  with 
weak  eyes,  jovial  expression,  and  a  com 
plexion  well-nigh  flaming.  His  horse  was 
one  of  the  racers,  and  he  himself  was  to 
ride  it,  as  was  evidenced  by  his  lack  of 
shoes,  his  stockinged  feet  being  thrust  into 
the  loops  of  a  rope  passed  over  the  horse's 
back.  These  served  for  stirrups,  there 
being  no  saddle. 


THE  RACE  151 

"  Hey  !  "  yelled  the  rider,  in  a  blaring 
voice,  and  rolling  his  eyes  in  jocose  ac 
knowledgment  of  his  wit.  "  Hey!  you 
feller,  you  're  bettin',  ain't  you?  I  '11  bet 
you  ten  dollars  this  hoss  can't  run  his 
best! " 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the 
crowd,  and  a  volley  of  responses. 

"  I  '11  bet  he  can't  drink  all  he  can 
swaller!  " 

"  Him?  That  there  hoss  ain't  wuth  a 
plaster-paris  dollar!  " 

"  Do  n't  you  fool  yourself — by  thunder, 
he  jis'  gits  down  and  slides!  " 

Another  rider  came  up  and  met  the 
first. 

"  Jim,  you  goin'  to  beat  me? "  he 
shouted  to  the  other.  A  sort  of  restrained 
smile  came  into  his  eyes,  which  were  so 
extremely  near  together  that  a  burly  by 
stander  cried  : 

"  That  there  feller's  eyes  both  comes 
out  o'  the  same  hole  !  " 

The  crowd  roared  again  and  thronged 
about  the  riders. 

"  Put  up  yer  money!  "  cried  a  lean 
prospector  from  the  mountains. 


i52  THE  RACE 

"  Twenty  dollars  on  the  roan!  "  shouted 
a  Mexican,  passing  a  bill  over  the  heads  of 
the  people. 

"  A  dollar  and  a  half  fer  the  bay!  " 

u  Fifty  cents  to  yer  boots  it  's  a  tic!  " 

Meanwhile  Jim  looked  at  his  compet 
itor.  In  the  very  narrow  space  between 
the  black  eyes  of  the  latter  his  nose  seemed 
long  and  thin.  It  was  also  a  trifle  red. 
His  complexion  was  sallow.  He  wore  a 
tattered  sombrero,  the  half  of  a  pair  of 
suspenders,  no  coat,  hat,  nor  shoes. 

"  Goin'  to  beat  me,  eh?  "  he  said  good- 
humoredly. 

"  Well,  now,  I  'm  goin'  to  break  my 
self  tryin',  Cal,"  said  Jim. 

u  This  here  bay  hoss  o*  mine,  you  know, 
Jim,  ain't  no  'count." 

41  What  you  stuffin'  at  me?  Ain't  I 
seen  him?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  moves  queer.  If  he  beats 
it  's  because  his  lef '  hine  leg  an'  his  right 
front  one  is  gone  wrong  an*  moves  too 
irregular  fast  fer  to  be  doin'  right,  an'  jist 
gits  him  over  the  ground  in  spite  of  his- 
self.  He  can't  help  it.  Haw!  haw!  " 
He  laughed  hoarsely  at  the  joke,  and  the 


THE   RACE  153 

crowd  laughed  with  him.  He  turned  and 
started  slowly  toward  the  upper  end  of 
the  course,  saying : 

u  Well,  Jim,  ain't  it  about  time  to  let 
out?  " 

Jim  watched  him  a  minute  curiously 
and  rode  after  him,  saying  to  the  by 
standers  : 

"Ain't  Cal  a  dern  jokey  sort  of  a  fel 
ler?  " 

Half-way  up  the  course  there  stood 
among  the  rest  of  the  people  a  very  slim 
but  very  boisterous  girl,  with  small  blue 
eyes,  stringy  light  hair,  and  a  faded,  dusty 
dress.  She  was  waving  her  arms  in  a 
more  or  less  sheepish  manner,  and  shout 
ing  in  a  shrill  voice  : 

u  Hurrah  fer  the  roan!  " 

"  He  ain't  goin'  to  beat,"  said  a  grin 
ning  cowboy  next  her. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  he  is!  "  said  the  girl. 
"  Gee!  I  '11  be  broke  up  if  he  do  n't.  I  'm 
jist  all  of  a  tremble." 

"  Nell 's  gittin'  worked  up,"  said  one  of 
the  bystanders. 

At  this  moment  Jim  came  riding  by  on 
his  way  to  the  upper  end  of  the  course. 


i54  THE  RACE 

"  Jim!  Jim!"  shrieked  the  girl,  her 
tones  thin  and  rasping,  as  she  waved  a 
dusty  hat  a  little  doubtfully  at  him.  "  Go 
at  it,  Jim!  You  're  goin'  to  have  'em  all 
crazy!" 

Jim  turned  his  face  toward  her,  rather 
startled.  Somehow  the  thing  did  not  seem 
to  please  him.  He  scowled  and  looked 
ahead  at  Cal,  and  went  on,  saying  noth 
ing. 

"That's  the  feller  you're  goin1  to 
marry,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  the  cowboy  next 
her. 

"That's  what  I  am,"  said  Nell, 
sharply. 

«  When  ?  " 

"To-morrow,  that  's  when,"  said  the 
girl.  She  was  looking  after  the  rider,  still 
doubtfully. 

"I  wonder  what's  wrong  with  him 
now  ?  "  she  said  to  herself. 

The  riders  had  reached  the  head  of  the 
straight  course  of  three  hundred  yards,  and 
were  preparing  to  start. 

"Tipsy!"  shouted  Cal,  turning  his 
near-set  eyes  about  upon  the  crowd. 
"  Where  in  the  devil 's  Tipsy  ?  " 


THE  RACE  155 

"  Here  I  "  cried  a  boy's  voice,  as  the 
boy  himself  appeared  running  out  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Fix  this  here  lef  loop,  will  you? 
Look  at  it,  it 's  all  gittin'  yanked  up.  It  '11 
be  hangin'  me  over  the  banisters  here  be 
fore  I  git  his  lef  hine  leg  an'  his  right 
front  one  to  workin'  in  conjugation  along 
with  the  others  ! "  He  winked  a  large, 
slow,  solemn  wink  at  the  boy. 

Tipsy  was  a  reckless,  happy,  ugly, 
sparkling-eyed  little  chap.  He  wore  the 
half  of  an  old  sombrero,  set  back  so  that 
the  hair  hung  in  one  of  his  eyes,  tattered 
trousers,  and  shoes  too  large  but  not  pre 
venting  very  lively  movement. 

"  There  you  are  !  "  he  cried  after  fixing 
the  loop.  "  Now  git  out  an'  sail !  " 

He  gave  the  horse  a  resounding  slap  on 
the  hip  and  backed  toward  the  crowd. 

Jim's  red  face  was  turned  stolidly  to  the 
front,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  roan's 
ears.  The  roan  was  champing  the  bit 
viciously  and  throwing  his  head  about. 
Cal  was  eyeing  Jim,  and  his  smaller  bay 
horse  stood  still.  The  start  was  made 
from  a  stand,  and  by  the  "  one,  two,  three  " 


156  THE   RACE 

of  a  starter.  Simultaneously  the  riders 
dug  spurs  into  the  horses'  sides,  leaned  far 
over  the  horses'  necks,  and  furiously  the 
beasts  leaped  away  down  the  course.  The 
sandy  dust  of  the  prairie  rose  in  a  swirled 
cloud  behind.  Already  the  most  of  the 
crowd  had  gathered  near  the  lower  end, 
and  at  the  start  they  swerved  breathless 
and  in  silence,  still  closer  together  about 
the  point  of  finish.  The  horses  came 
over  the  prairie  like  birds,  stretching  them 
selves  out  in  frantic  response  to  the  spurs, 
and  running  neck  and  neck. 

"  Go  it !  Go  it  !  "  shrieked  the  thin- 
voiced  Nell,  leaping  up  and  down  in  un 
gainly  excitement,  as  the  beasts  hissed  by 
her.  Even  in  that  small  moment  Jim 
found  thought  to  mutter  to  himself  in 
deep  disgust: 

u  Listen  to  that  fool  gal  !  " 

At  no  time  in  the  race  was  there  any 
perceptible  difference  in  the  speed  of  the 
animals.  Jim  was  plying  his  spur  frantic 
ally,  and  Cal,  leaning  far  over  the  bay's 
neck,  still  had  his  near-set  eyes  turned 
across  the  course  at  the  roan.  A  great 
yell  arose  from  the  crowd,  and  amid  a 


THE   RACE  157 

whirlwind  of  dust  and  a  muffled  thunder  of 
hoofs  the  two  horses  shot  past  the  point 
of  finish,  so  nearly  even  that  a  decision  was 
impossible. 

Tipsy  came  leaping  down  the  course, 
yelling  shrilly  that  the  bay  had  beaten  by 
half  a  length,  though  he  himself  had  been 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  finish.  Jim  rode 
back  into  the  shouting  crowd,  declaring  it 
was  he  who  had  won  by  a  head.  Every 
one  else  had  his  own  opinion,  and  was  mor 
ally  and  loudly  certain  of  its  correctness. 

"  Jim  beat!"  cried  Nell,  hurrying  up 
breathless  and  flustered,  and  coughing 
with  the  dust.  u  I  seen  him  !  He  was 
clean  ten  feet  ahead,  by  George  !  I  seen 
him  !  I  tell  you  Jim  beat !  " 

The  air  was  full  of  similar  and  con 
verse  opinions,  opinions  yoked  in  general 
by  the  pressure  of  the  bets.  Jim  looked 
at  Nell  and  turned  and  spent  his  argu 
ments  on  another  part  of  the  crowd.  Cal 
alone  sat  silent,  looking  at  the  people  in  a 
sort  of  grim  amusement.  It  was  finally 
decided  that  the  race  was  a  tie. 

"  Well,  then,"  shouted  Jim,  "the  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  try  it  agin." 


1 58  THE   RACE 

"  Come  on,"  said  Cal. 

The  course  was  retraced,  and  the  stand 
again  taken  at  the  upper  end. 

u  Jim  beat,  I  tell  you  !  "  shrieked  the 
excited  Nell.  "  They  ain't  no  use  to  run 
it  agin,  nohow — he  's  done  won  it  oncet !  " 

"  Aw  he  ain't  neither,"  growled  Tipsy, 
ready  for  belligerency  on  the  spot,  which, 
however,  was  prevented  by  the  start. 

Once  more  the  horses  came  down  the 
course.  The  plying  of  spurs,  the  plowing 
of  the  foam  of  sandy  earth,  the  swerving 
of  the  crowd,  and  the  final  yell,  were  re 
peated.  A  second  time,  after  much 
vociferous  contention,  the  race  was  de 
clared  a  tie. 

"  Well,"  said  Jim,  his  face  fairly  flaming 
by  this  time,  "  then,  by  thunder,  there 
ain't  nothin'  to  do  but  run  it  agin  !  " 

"  Come  on,"  said  Cal. 

At  the  third  finish  the  roan,  influenced 
perhaps  by  unusual  poignancy  of  spur-digs 
from  Jim,  perhaps  by  an  extra  whoop 
from  the  shrill  voice  of  Nell,  was  clearly 
half  a  length  ahead.  The  crowd's  shout 
was  fuller  and  more  prolonged.  Jim  came 


THE  RACE  159 

riding  back  in  boisterous  delight.  Cal 
returned  calmly. 

u  He  went  an'  got  'em  to  workin'  too 
regular,"  the  latter  said,  winking  his  long 
slow  wink  at  the  despairing  Tipsy.  "  It 
was  runnin'  him  three  times  that  way  that 
done  it.  First  two  times  his  lef  hine  leg 
an'  his  right  front  one  was  workin'  all 
wrong,  jist  gittin'  him  over  the  ground 
so  's  he  could  n't  help  hisself,  an'  he  come 
nigh  beatin'.  But  you  see  they  got 
worked  down  regular.  After  another  two 
er  three  this  here  hoss  'd  git  to  goin'  so 
blame  smooth  an'  perfeck  that  it  'd  jist  be 
like  sleepin'  to  him." 

"  I  knowed  it !  I  knowed  it !  "  cried 
Nell,  hastening  up  panting.  "  M-hmf — 
got  beat,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

Jim  eyed  her  and  turned  away.  His 
delight  in  the  victory  was  short  lived.  He 
rode  on  into  town  grunting  to  himself. 
The  crowd,  still  shouting  and  laughing, 
bandied  the  money  about  like  chaff  and 
finally  dispersed.  With  much  galloping 
of  horses,  rattling  of  vehicles,  and  dust- 
wading  of  pedestrians,  the  course  was 


160  THE  RACE 

left  deserted  out  in  the  bare  middle  of  the 
prairie's  nothingness  ;  the  trail  was  trav 
ersed,  and  the  town  revived. 

The  town  consisted  of  a  schoolhouse, 
a  very  small  Methodist  church,  one  little 
hotel,  six  saloons,  four  or  five  stores,  and 
two  or  three  straggling  streets  of  houses, 
mostly  adobe.  As  evening  came  on,  a 
solitary  man  sat  on  a  goods  box  behind 
one  of  the  smallest  stores,  kicking  some 
empty  tomato-cans  absently  with  his  foot. 
It  was  Jim.  His  complexion  had  lost 
little  of  its  splendor.  He  was  still,  to 
judge  from  his  expression,  in  an  unpleasant 
state  of  mind. 

Cal  came  out  of  the  rear  door  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  customary 
calm  manner  of  seeming  to  feel  the  humor 
of  the  situation,  if  there  were  any.  He 
eyed  Jim  out  of  the  eyes  that  "  both  came 
out  of  the  same  hole."  Jim  looked  up. 

"Well,  Cal,"  he  said,  "you  ain't  broke 
up  none  because  I  beat  you,  are  you?  " 

"  I  told  you  you  never  done  it.  It  was 
the  uncommon  regularity  o'  the  hoss's 
feet." 

"  But  you  ain't  kickin'  none?  " 


THE   RACE  161 

Cal  took  a  chew  of  tobacco,  and  said 
meditatively: 

«  Well,  no.  What  kind  of  a  feller  do 
you  reckon  I  am?  Did  n't  you  know  I 
was  bettin'  on  your  hoss?  " 

"  Thunder!  "  said  Jim. 

u  Looky  here,  Jim.  Let 's  git  out  o' 
this  here  place." 

"  What  fer?  "  said  Jim,  looking  up  with 
something  almost  like  excitement  in  his 
weak  eyes. 

"  Why,  looky  here.  There  ain't  no 
money  here.  Now  I  been  racin',  foot- 
racin'  an'  hoss-racin',  ever  since  I  can 
recollect,  an'  it 's  got  to  be  a  habit,  you 
know — jist  like  cussin'  er  combin'  a  fel 
ler's  hair  '11  grow  on  him.  Me  an'  you 
got  the  two  best  hosses  anywheres  in  the 
territory  outside  the  rings.  Let 's  git  to 
travelin'  round  an'  puttin'  up  races.  We 
can  fix  'em  up  to  suit  the  bets." 

Cal  spat  into  the  air,  smiled  a  large, 
bland  smile,  and  winked  his  slow  wink. 

"  Can't,"  said  Jim. 

"  Why?  " 

"  O,  I'm  goin'  to  git  married  to-mor 
row." 


162  THE   RACE 

Cal  walked  round  him  a  few  steps  in 
some  calm  amazement,  eyeing  him  as  he 
might  have  eyed  a  curiosity. 

"No!  "  he  said. 

"  O,  the  devil !  "  said  Jim,  kicking  the 
cans  viciously.  "  It 's  so — that 's  what  it 
is!" 

Cal  looked  on  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  Finally  he  gave  a  little  internal 
puff  of  laughter. 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  do  it  fer, 
Jim?  " 

u  W'y,  /  do  n't  know.  What  a  fool  a 
feller  is!  " 

"Got  tired  of  it,  eh?  " 

"O,  it's  sick'nin'!" 

"Who  is  she?" 

"W'y,"  still  irritated,  "  that  there  gal 
— you  seen  her — there  at  the  race,  what 
they  called  Nell,  /don't  know  what  her 
other  name  is — she  ain't  got  none!  "  He 
spoke  contemptuously. 

Cal  stood  and  looked  calmly  at  Jim. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  her?  "  he  said. 

"  O,  she  jist  makes  sich  a  fool  of  her 
self!" 

"  H'm!  "  said   Cal   in   a   kind   of  half- 


THE  RACE  163 

laugh.  He  seemed  calmly  amused,  and 
the  very  large  smile  came  blandly  over  his 
face  again. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  I  do  n't  see 
why  you  won't  come  an*  go  with  the 
hosses.  You  talk  like  you  do  n't  want  to 
git  married.  What 's  to  hinder  jist 
leavin'  ? " 

Jim  kicked  the  cans  again  and  said 
nothing. 

u  Jist  kind  o' — move  off,  you  know," 
said  Cal,  with  his  huge  wink. 

Jim  still  was  silent. 

"  I  can  see  plain,"  said  Cal,  "  that 
you  're  hankerin'  that  way.  I  know. 
You  're  kind  o'  back'ard  about  knowin* 
how  to  go  at  it.  It  is  onhandy,  but  it 
ain't  no  real  trouble  after  you  git  into  it. 
I  done  it  once.  Jist  go  at  it  cool.  Le  's 
see.  You  can't  go  ridin'  off  in  the  day 
time,  because  any  amount  of  'em  'd  see 
you  an'  wonder  where  in  the  devil  you 
was  goin',  fer  you  can  see  all  the  way 
from  four  to  ten  miles  all  around  here. 
It  'd  be  wuss  in  the  night,  fer  they  '11  all  be 
drunk  an'  tearin'  around  all  night,  'specially 
to-night  after  the  race." 


164  THE  RACE 

He  meditated  quite  a  while,  standing 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  chewing 
slowly.  Jim  kicked  the  cans  again,  then 
eyed  Cal,  then  returned  to  the  cans.  His 
face  wore  the  additional  redness  of  internal 
exertion.  At  last  Cal  turned  toward  him, 
his  small  eyes  still  dreamy  with  medita 
tion. 

"  O,  it  's  easy  enough,"  he  said, 
smiling  again.  u  Looky  here  now.'* 

He  cast  his  eyes  about  to  see  that  no 
one  was  near,  sat  down  on  the  box  beside 
Jim,  marked  his  plans  out  on  the  palm  of 
one  hand  with  the  finger  of  the  other, 
and,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  began.  Jim 
seemed  dubious  at  first,  but  as  the  expla 
nation  proceeded  his  eyes  became  wider, 
finally  sparkling  with  delight.  His  com 
plexion  grew  vivid  with  excitement. 
When  Cal  had  finished  and  leaned  back, 
eyeing  him  with  the  bland  smile,  Jim 
slapped  both  hands  upon  his  thighs  and 
burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  He  broke 
off  quite  suddenly. 

u  But  look  here,"  he  said,  "  ain't  it  a 
devil  of  a  ways  ?  " 

"Ain't   I   a   foot-racer?"  said    Cal    in 


THE  RACE  165 

some  scorn.  "  An'  as  fer  you  —  why,  I 
had  an  idee  you  M  think  it  was  wuth  it." 

Jim  broke  again  into  the  laugh,  uproar 
ious  to  feverishness. 

"  Well,  by  thunder  !  I  guess  it  is!"  he 
said. 

"  An'  as  fer  the  hosses — why,  there  's 
Tipsy,"  said  Cal. 

Later  the  two  walked  together  up  the 
principal  street.  They  found  Tipsy  and 
Nell  in  a  store  near  the  schoolhouse 
quarreling  over  the  issue  of  the  race.  Cal 
called  Tipsy  out  and  walked  away  with 
him.  Jim  was  now  in  high  spirits.  He 
laughed  excitedly  with  the  girl  and  the 
store-keeper,  and  finally  took  Nell  off  to 
the  one  little  hotel  to  give  her  u  a  rousin' 
good  supper."  Jim  was  amply  capable 
of  playing  his  part,  and  the  girl's  shrill 
laughter  as  they  sauntered  along  together 
announced  her  approval  of  his  conduct. 

In  the  middle  of  the  following  morning 
Tipsy  might  have  been  seen  riding  past 
the  Methodist  church,  which  stood  at  the 
very  edge  of  the  town,  out  across  the 
prairie  toward  a  line  of  distant  mesas  some 
three  or  four  miles  to  the  west.  Tipsy 


166  THE  RACE 

was  whistling  shrilly,  with  his  half-som 
brero  still  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  his 
hair  in  his  eye.  He  was  leading  two 
horses  behind  the  one  he  rode.  One  of 
them  was  a  bay,  the  other  a  gaunt  roan. 

About  noon  those  who  were  to  witness 
the  marriage  ceremony  came  and  opened 
the  little  church  and  went  in.  Some  nine 
or  ten  cowboys  came  first,  among  whom 
was  Cal,  calmly  surveying  the  surround 
ings  and  chewing  tobacco.  The  party 
sat  down  on  the  front  benches  and  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  principals. 

u  She  's  dern  ugly,"  said  one  with  un 
blushing  frankness. 

"She  ain't  no  uglier 'n  him,"  said  an 
other. 

"  Well,  a  man's  always  ugly.  A  man  's 
got  to  be  ugly." 

"  She 's  so  kind  o'  noisy  an'  fussy, 
somehow,"  put  in  a  third. 

"Some  fellers  is  jis'  plumb  ijjits,"  said 
a  huge,  broad-shouldered  giant. 

"  Wonder  what's  keepin'  'em  so  long?  " 

"  Why,  the  devil,  you  do  n't  reckon 
nobody  's  goin'  to  trot  to  their  weddin',  do 
you?  Give  'em  time!  " 


THE  RACE  167 

"  Fellers,"  said  Cal,  finally,  winking 
more  to  himself  than  to  any  one  else. 
"  You  ain't  treatin'  this  here  thing  with  no 
right  kind  o'  respeck.  You  do  n't  seem 
in  no  ways  to  git  onto  the  solemness. 
This  here,  gentlemen,  is  a  weddin'." 

Others  began  to  appear.  There  were 
two  or  three  old  women  of  the  town, 
chattering  volubly ;  a  couple  of  young 
Mexican  girls  chewing  gum  and  giggling 
at  the  cowboys;  and  the  minister's  wife, 
who  sat  in  the  rear  corner  by  herself. 

Finally  the  two  objects  of  interest  ap 
peared  at  the  door.  Jim's  face  was  pain 
fully  red,  as  usual.  A  stiff  collar  seemed 
cutting  his  throat,  and  there  was  perspira 
tion  on  his  forehead.  Nell  wore  the  same 
dress  she  had  worn  the  day  before,  and  upon 
it  was  the  same  dust.  Her  light  hair  dis 
tributed  itself  in  irregular  wisps  about  her 
head,  and  at  places  protruded  aimlessly 
into  the  air.  She  looked  about  sharply 
and  tossed  her  head  recklessly.  She  was 
in  doubt  about  Jim  no  more,  and  was  free 
to  observe  all  the  surroundings.  The  one 
aisle  chanced  to  be  so  narrow  that  the  two 
could  not  walk  side  by  side. 


1 68  THE  RACE 

"Git  along  first!"   said  Nell  raspingly. 

Jim's  face  grew  fiery,  and  he  obeyed, 
tramping  stolidly  to  the  front,  his  eyes 
cocked  sideways  all  the  while  at  Cal's  calm 
visage.  Nell  followed.  She  was  in  no 
wise  subdued  by  the  occasion.  Cal's  face 
caught  her  eye  and  seemed  toawaken  malice 
in  her.  She  leaned  over  the  seat  nearest 
him  and  whispered  loudly  : 

"  Got  beat,  did  n't  you  ?  H'm  !  got 
beat!" 

The  minister,  who  had  meanwhile  en 
tered  a  small  rear  door,  was  somewhat 
taken  aback  at  this  unusual  proceeding, 
but  soon  regained  his  presence  of  mind. 

"  Here,"  he  said  to  Nell,  who  was 
shifting  about  feverishly,  in  some  doubt  as 
to  the  place  to  stand.  u  Jes'  stand  right 
there.  And,  mister,  you  git  right  along 
side  of  her." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  tittering  and 
whispering  in  the  audience.  Jim's  eyes 
were  still  swerved  far  to  the  right,  fastened 
upon  Cal,  who  responded  with  a  wink, 
unusually  prolonged,  and  employing  the 
majority  of  his  features. 

The  preliminaries  were  gotten  through 


THE  RACE  169 

within  irregular,  but  seemingly  satisfactory 
style.  There  was  some  hitch  at  odd  times, 
owing  to  a  lack  of  knowledge  on  Jim's 
part  as  to  whether  or  not  there  were  any 
thing  required  of  him.  Some  candid 
promptings  from  Nell,  however,  delivered 
in  a  manner  effective,  if  not  appropriate, 
bridged  over  the  difficulties.  Cal  was 
smiling  his  bland  smile  when  the  minister 
came  to  the  words  : 

"  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause  why 
they  may  not  lawfully  be  joined  together, 
let  him  speak  now,  or  else  hereafter  for 
ever  hold  his  peace." 

There  was  a  second's  silence,  and  Cal 
arose.  He  coughed  an  introductory  cough, 
and  stepped  to  the  front,  his  face  deeply 
solemn,  his  hand  raised  in  an  attitude  such 
as  the  minister  might  have  employed  in 
delivering  a  benediction. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  said  in  a  nasal,  queru 
lous,  slightly  elevated  tone,  "looky  here. 
I  sure  put  in  a  kick.  This  thing  ain't 
smooth  ner  regular.  Yes,  sir — it's  me 
that  objects!  " 

Nell  fell  back  in  amazement,  the 
preacher  appeared  stupefied,  and  the  audi- 


1 70  THE  RACE 

ence  leaned  forward  in  breathless  interest. 
It  was  Jim  upon  whom  the  matter  of  action 
devolved,  for  Cal  stood  calm  and  silent. 
Jim  turned  squarely  about  and  faced  the 
objector,  seemingly  in  a  red  frenzy  of 
wrath.  Then  he  rolled  his  sleeves  far  up 
above  his  elbows  and  started  at  him. 

u  By  thunder  !  "  he  yelled  furiously, 
"you  git  out  o'  here  !  " 

In  a  sort  of  weak  terror,  exquisite  to  be 
hold,  Cal  backed  down  the  aisle  before 
him,  murmuring  querulously  : 

"  Well,  now — hold  on — you  do  n't  give 
a  feller  no  show." 

"  You  git  out !  "  roared  Jim,  bearing 
down  steamingly. 

As  they  approached  the  door,  Cal's  ter 
ror  plainly  increased  ;  he  ceased  backing, 
turned,  and  ran  wildly  out  of  the  door, 
with  the  perspiring  Jim  in  close  pursuit. 

In  a  jumble  of  frantic  curiosity  and  no 
little  wrath,  Nell  and  the  audience  rushed 
to  the  door  and  out  upon  the  prairie.  Far 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  plain  they  beheld  Cal 
dashing  away  to  the  west,with  Jim  following 
hotly.  Speechless,  Nell  stood  and  watched, 
her  eyes  staring  stupidly  at  the  retreating 


THE  RACE  171 

figures,  her  mouth  dropping  open  in  nerve 
less  wonder.  Never  a  word  was  said. 
Ten  minutes  went  by,  and  the  distant 
chase  continued,  the  figures  becoming 
smaller  and  smaller  against  the  unvarying 
brown  of  the  prairie.  Nell  caught  her 
breath  a  little  and  planted  her  feet  and 
stared  with  feverish  intensity.  Ten  min 
utes  more  and  the  figures  had  become 
specks.  The  members  of  the  audience 
began  to  look  about  blankly  at  one  another. 
Still  Nell  spoke  never  a  word.  A  little 
longer  and  the  specks  were  lost  in  the 
misty  outline  of  the  distant  mesas.  The 
men  were  gone,  and  the  erratic  Nell  and 
the  disappointed  audience,  the  town  and 
its  barren  vicinity,  saw  them  no  more. 


HER    HOME-COMING 


TIMID  little  Mrs.  Serna  came  out  of 
the  hut  and  crossed  the  trail  to  the 
minute  chapel  that  stood  in  the  gar 
den.  She  wore  over  her  head  a  small  dull 
shawl,  which  hung  down  about  her  slim 
shoulders,  and  from  which  her  face,  with 
its  many  small  wrinkles,  peered  meekly. 
As  usual,  she  carried  her  hands  crossed  be 
fore  her.  The  worn  dress,  that  had  been 
black,  came  just  below  the  shoe-tops,  and 
the  shoes  themselves  were  brown  with 
age. 

The  church  —  her  church  —  was  not 
more  than  fifteen  feet  square,  made  of 
adobes,  and,  without,  plain  to  monotony. 
There  was  no  tower  and  no  vestibule  and 
barely  windows.  The  flat  walls  arose  to 
meet  the  flat  roof,  and  the  flat  roof  was 
earthen,  like  the  walls.  It  was  three  miles  to 
another  house,  and  twenty  miles  to  a  priest 
or  any  one  whom  little  Mrs.  Serna  could 
171 


HER  HOME-COMING      173 

have  felt  in  her  heart  to  be  a  good  Catho 
lic.  There  might  seem  to  have  been  no 
use  for  the  little  church,  for  nobody  ever 
sang  in  it  or  preached  in  it,  and  the  stage- 
road  passing  by  knew  nothing  of  worship, 
and  the  mesas  about  knew  it  only  in  their 
own  inscrutably  silent  way.  But  to  the 
little  Mexican  woman  with  the  quiet  blue 
eyes  there  was  use  for  the  church. 

A  wooden  door  gave  entrance,  and  Mrs. 
Serna  pushed  it  open  and  went  in,  and 
closed  it  behind  her.  There  were  not 
any  seats  within;  the  hard  earthen  floor 
was  quite  bare,  and  the  little  room  seemed 
empty.  At  the  other  end,  however,  was 
the  altar,  and  the  dim  light  was  reflected 
from  many  a  dazzling  thing  upon  it  and 
around  it.  The  Blessed  Mary  was  there, 
and  Mrs.  Serna  knelt  before  the  rude 
wooden  image,  and  thought,  in  the  midst 
of  her  prayers,  that  the  paper  halo  which 
she  herself  had  reverently  placed  upon  the 
Virgin's  brow  must  be  straightened. 

There  were  saints,  of  wood  also,  and 
painted  very  strangely,  but  as  well  as  Mrs. 
Serna  could  do  it.  The  figures  were  all 
small;  they  were  the  best  she  could  get, 


i74      HER   HOiME-COMING 

and  large  ones  would  have  been  too  large 
for  the  room  and  the  low  ceiling.  She 
knew  very  well  that  it  made  no  difference. 

In  the  center,  and  higher  up,  was  the 
Crucified  One,  hanging  there  as  He  had 
hung  since  she  first  timidly  placed  Him 
there  many  years  ago.  The  blood  was 
painted  naturally,  she  thought — how  very 
terrible  it  would  be  to  bleed  like  that.  She 
was  too  meek  to  have  thought  it  out  very 
far,  but  she  could  kneel  down  here  on  the 
bare  earth  of  the  floor  and  pray  for  Cor- 
nelio,  and  Anita,  and  for  those  who  had 
gone — Jose  and  Gertie  and  poor  old  Lau- 
riano  himself;  which  was  all  the  church 
was  for. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  tinsel  and 
pink  and  gold  paper  and  little  pieces  of 
china  about  the  figures  and  the  altar.  She 
had  done  as  much  of  that  as  she  could, 
and  had  tried  to  make  it  really  pretty  and 
like  what  she  thought  a  cathedral  would 
be.  She  had  never  seen  a  cathedral,  for 
she  had  always  lived  here.  But  they  had 
told  her  about  it;  and  old  Lauriano,  before 
he  died,  had  helped  her  to  decorate  the 
church.  Even  on  the  Christ  there  was  an 


HER  HOME-COMING      175 

odd  little  paper  skirt,  which  she  had 
changed  many  times.  She  was  not  sure 
that  it  was  just  as  it  should  be.  The  pink 
she  had  thought  unsuitable  to  the  blood, 
and  had  tried  the  gold.  But  she  had  at 
length  discarded  both  for  the  white  one  of 
tissue  paper,  which  looked  better.  Mrs. 
Serna  knelt  longer  to-day  than  usual,  and 
a  few  more  tears  fell  than  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  fall. 

The  door  behind  her  opened,  and  Cor- 
nelio  came  in.  He  was  a  short  man  with 
an  ugly  face,  but  not  unkindly  eyes.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  watched  his  mother 
for  a  while.  Apparently  she  had  not  heard 
him. 

"Mother,"  he  said  presently. 

She  arose  hurriedly,  like  one  .caught  un 
awares  and  confused,  and  folded  her 
hands. 

"  It  is  time  to  go,  you  know.  We 
ought  to  start  in  half  an  hour.  Anita  is 
waiting  already." 

u  Yes,  Cornelio,  I  was  coming."  She 
smoothed  the  shawl  down  and  looked 
hopelessly  all  about  the  church,  from  the 
Blessed  Mary  to  the  Christ,  and  thence  to 


176      HER  HOME-COMING 

the  walls  and  the  bare  floor.  But  she 
made  no  move  to  go  out. 

"  Mother,"  said  Cornelio  again,  finger 
ing  his  hat. 

u  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  startled  again  and 
speaking  like  one  frightened.  "  I  am 
coming,  Cornelio." 

Again  Cornelio  waited.  He  could  see 
his  mother  was  struggling  with  herself, 
and  knowing  that  she  would  speak  pres 
ently,  he  said  no  more.  After  fluttering 
a  little  and  looking  about  again,  the  blue 
eyes  were  raised  to  Cornelio. 

"Cornelio,"  she  said,  speaking  not 
much  above  a  whisper,  "  I  can  hardly  bear 
to  be  going.  It 's  very  much  worse  than 
I  thought.  But  —  never  mind  ;  I  know 
it  is  right  —  I  can  go."  She  dropped 
her  eyes  to  the  floor,  fingered  the  worn 
fringe  of  the  shawl,  and  stepped  to  the 
corner  of  the  church.  u  Cornelio,"  she 
said,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  hard  earth, 
"  your  father  is  under  this  spot  here.  Poor 
old  Lauriano.  It  was  right  here.  He 
picked  out  the  spot  himself.  And  over 
here,  this  is  Jose,  just  about  here,  with  his 
head  this  way,  next  to  Lauriano.  His  feet 


HER  HOME-COMING      177 

come  only  to  about  here.  Then  right 
here  is  Gertie  —  you  can  remember  that 
yourself.  Poor  little  Gertie.  Nobody 
would  know  they  were  here  now,  would 
they  ?  " 

She  raised  the  corner  of  her  shawl  to 
her  eyes  and  stood  and  looked  through  the 
fringe  at  the  earth. 

"  Cornelio." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  mother  ?  " 

"  I  've  told  you  I  'd  go  with  you,  Cor 
nelio,  because  you  've  got  a  big  ranch  now 
and  more  cattle  to  take  care  of.  At  first 
I  could  n't  bear  its  being  four  miles  from 
the  church,  and  even  yet  it  do  n't  seem  like 
it 's  really  me  that  's  going  away.  It 
seems  like  it 's  somebody  else.  But  I  '11 
go  ;  I  've  told  you  I  '11  go.  There  's  just 
one  thing  I  want  you  to  promise." 

Cornelio  fingered  his  hat  and  stood  and 
waited.  He  was  growing  a  little  im 
patient. 

"  I  could  n't  lie  in  peace  anywhere  else," 
she  said.  "  I  could  n't  go  a  step  if  I 
thought  I  'd  have  to.  I  'd  die  right  here 
to-day.  Seems  like  I  'd  rise  up  in  my 
grave  anywhere  else.  Here  's  the  place 


i78      HER   HOME-COMING 

I  've  set  —  me  here,  and  Lauriano  here, 
and  Jose  and  Gertie  over  here.  Promise 
me,  Cornelio,  promise  me  honest  and  true, 
that  whatever  comes  you  '11  bring  me 
back  and  put  me  here  beside  these  three." 

Cornelio  promised,  took  out  his  ancient 
silver  watch  and  looked  at  the  time,  and 
insisted  that  now  they  must  go. 

By  the  next  day  they  were  fairly  settled 
in  the  new  house  four  miles  away, — Cor 
nelio,  his  mother,  and  his  sister  Anita. 
This  day  and  nearly  all  of  the  days  follow 
ing,  Cornelio  was  gone  from  morning  till 
night  over  the  prairie  that  stretched  in 
every  direction,  on  his  rounds  among  the 
cattle.  Mrs.  Serna  tried  the  best  she 
could  to  seem  at  home,  but  she  had  never 
lived  so  far  away  as  this. 

"  Anita,"  she  said  one  morning,  stop 
ping  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  and 
looking  absently  at  the  stove,  u  if  we  could 
only  have  brought  the  church  with  us — 
and  the  graves,  I  would  n't  mind  it.  Or 
if  only  that  mesa  was  moved  back  and  I 
could  see  round  the  corner  of  it,  it  would  n't 
be  so  bad." 

u  Oh  now,  mother,"  said   Anita,  "just 


HER  HOME-COMING      179 

quit  thinking  about  it.  We  can  drive  you 
up  there  sometimes  on  Sundays.  Four 
miles  isn't  but  a  step." 

"  It  seems  like  a  long  step — like  I  was 
in  another  world  somehow.  Anita,  you 
won't  let  Cornelio  forget  his  promise,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  He  won't  forget.  Besides,  you  're 
not  going  to  be  buried  for  a  good  many 
years  yet." 

The  little  woman  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  she  said,  "  I  do  n't 
know." 

She  would  try  to  get  out  of  these  de 
pressing  moods,  and  went  about  busying 
herself  with  Anita's  work.  And  Anita, 
who  had  a  good  enough  heart  but  little 
knowledge  of  the  nature  of  her  mother, 
whistled  from  morning  till  night,  with  her 
black  hair  hanging  raggedly  about  her 
brown  face,  and  her  dress,  longer  behind 
than  in  front,  spotted  with  the  soot  of  the 
kitchen.  But  her  mother  caught  little  of 
the  spirit  of  the  whistling,  and  Anita  found 
her  crying  over  the  forks  once,  which  she 
held  purposelessly  in  her  wrinkled  hands, 
the  knives  lying  neglected  in  the  water. 


i8o      HER   HOME-COMING 

And  once  the  little  woman  forgot  herself 
and  dropped  the  teapot  on  the  floor,  and 
broke  it  and  spilled  its  contents  all  about. 
She  sank  down  and  wept  piteously,  while 
Anita  gathered  up  the  pieces.  The  girl 
finally  lifted  her  up  and  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"  I  'm  just  all  gone,  somehow,"  she  said 
to  Anita.  "  Oh,  I  just  can't  bear  it.  I  've 
been  there  all  my  life, — and  the  three  of 
them  lying  there  day  and  night,  and  me  not 
there.  I  never  missed  it  once  since  they 
were  put  there — twice  a  day.  They  must 
notice  it,  Anita." 

Some  weeks  went  by,  and  the  two  chil 
dren  could  not  but  see  that  the  little 
woman  was  pining  away.  Her  thin 
shoulders  grew  thinner  still,  and  the  very 
small  form  seemed  visibly  to  shrink.  The 
wrinkles  on  the  face  grew  deeper  and  the 
pensive  look  increased.  They  would  find 
her  many  times  a  day,  and  sometimes  in 
the  night  when  the  moon  shone  and  the 
prairies  were  still  and  bright,  standing 
looking  at  the  corner  of  the  distant  mesa. 
She  was  constantly  in  trouble  over  the 
promise  of  Cornelio,  and  made  him  very 
frequently  repeat  it. 


HER  HOME-COMING      181 

She  was  sick  a  few  days  in  the  early 
summer,  and  in  the  fever  talked  only  of 
Lauriano  and  Jose  and  Gertie.  They 
feared  it  would  be  her  end,  but  she  grew 
better  after  a  week,  and  was  soon  going 
about  again.  It  was  plain,  however,  that 
she  was  weaker.  She  was  so  frail  that 
they  half  expected  her  to  fall  at  any  min 
ute.  And  even  the  sturdy  and  thought 
less  Cornelio  felt  an  odd  misgiving  as  he 
rode  away  in  the  morning,  lest  on  his  re 
turn  at  night  he  might  find  that  she  was  dead. 

Cornelio  and  Anita  had  a  secret  which 
they  had  kept  from  their  mother  till  their 
hopes  in  it  should  be  realized.  They 
were  in  doubt  as  to  the  effect  of  it  on  the 
little  woman.  There  came  a  day,  how 
ever,  when  it  must  come  out.  Cornelio 
returned  early  in  the  evening  and  found 
his  mother  sitting  by  the  kitchen  fire  pen 
sively  watching  Anita.  The  girl  was  pre 
paring  the  supper.  Cornelio,  watched  by 
his  sister,  nervously  poked  the  fire  and 
fumbled  with  the  battered  kettle  on  the 
stove. 

"  Well,  it 's  come,"  he  said  presently 
to  Anita.  Anita  stopped  in  her  work. 


i82      HER  HOME-COMING 

u  Mother,  I  *ve  got  some  good  news," 
said  Cornelio.  The  little  woman  turned 
her  eyes  absently  to  him. 

"  You  're  always  glad  to  hear  I  'm  get 
ting  on,  are  n't  you,  mother?  " 

u  Why — why, yes,  Cornelio ;  yes."  She 
was  a  little  startled  ;  his  manner  was  not 
easy. 

"  They  're  going  to  make  me  sheriff, 
mother." 

She  looked  about  vaguely,  seemed  to 
consider  it  necessary  to  smile,  but  failed. 

u  It  's  a  good  job  and  more  money  in  it 
than  this.  It  's  a  mighty  fine  thing, 
mother." 

Mrs.  Serna  looked  helplessly  at  Anita, 
who  tried  to  smile  reassuringly. 

u  We  '11  live  in  Springer,  you  know," 
went  on  Cornelio  hurriedly  ;  u  a  nice 
place  there  by  the  jail — fine  place  ;  you 
and  Anita  with  me,  you  know." 

The  old  woman's  head  went  back 
against  the  chair. 

"  We  '11  go  in  a  few  days,"  said  Cor 
nelio,  desperately,  "  maybe  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Serna  said  nothing.  She  turned 
her  head  and  looked  out  of  the  window  at 
the  distant  mesa,  then  about  upon  the 


HER  HOME-COMING      183 

dishes  and  the  floor.  She  seemed  suddenly 
to  think  she  must  say  something  in  agree 
ment. 

"  It 's  a — it  's  a  nice  thing,  Cornelio," 
she  said. 

After  watching  her  a  moment,  Anita 
went  on  with  the  supper.  In  half  an 
hour  it  was  ready.  Her  mother  was  still 
sitting  by  the  fire. 

"  How  far  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Serna,  at  last. 

"About  twenty-five  miles,"  replied 
Anita. 

Mrs.  Serna  told  them  she  could  not  eat 
any  supper,  and  before  it  was  dark  she 
wanted  Anita  to  put  her  to  bed.  They 
could  see  signs  of  the  fever  again,  and  be 
fore  Anita  left  her  for  the  night  she  was 
muttering  occasionally  to  herself  about 
Gertie  and  Jose  and  Lauriano. 

The  sun  set  at  half-past  six,  and  an 
hour  later  they  found  that  Mrs.  Serna  was 
gone.  They  searched  the  house  and  the 
garden  and  the  adobe  stable,  but  she  was 
not  there.  Her  shawl,  they  found,  was 
also  gone.  In  consternation  Cornelio  and 
Anita  stood  and  stared  at  one  another. 

"  Saddle  the  horses,  Cornelio,  quick." 

A  little   later  they  were  on   their  way 


184      HER   HOME-COMING 

toward  the  point  of  the  mesa.  It  was  al 
most  dark,  and  the  trail  was  narrow  and  in 
places  rugged,  but  the  horses  were  familiar 
with  it.  Neither  of  the  riders  had  any 
doubt  as  to  the  way  she  had  gone. 

Near  the  mesa,  on  a  spot  of  rough  and 
stony  ground,  they  found  the  shawl,  its 
worn  fringe  caught  up  into  the  scrub-oak 
bush  by  the  way.  In  deep  distress  they 
hurried  on.  At  last  they  could  see  the 
old  adobe  house,  now  empty  and  forlorn  ; 
and  across  the  trail  from  it  the  deserted 
chapel  came  dim  out  of  the  dusk.  When 
they  were  fifty  yards  from  the  church, 
they  saw  her  staggering  along  in  front  of 
them  over  the  stones  of  the  trail,  close  to 
the  door.  Bounding  forward  they  beheld 
her  fall.  Coming  now  close  to  her,  they 
could  see  her  crawling  on  the  ground, 
silently,  stretching  out  her  hands  to  the 
door.  They  reached  it  as  soon  as  she, 
but  she  sunk  against  the  wood. 

You  can  see  her  grave  in  there  now,  if 
you  go ;  only  that  the  earthern  floor  is 
flat  above  it  as  above  the  others,  and  they 
must  show  you  where  it  is.  But  she  is 
beside  Jose  and  Gertie  and  Lauriano. 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 


YOU  seen  the  cabin  up  yonder  in  the 
canon,  where  the  Blackwater  Mesa 
trail  comes  down?  I  showed  you, 
did  n't  I  —  where  the  rocks  starts  up  on 
both  sides?  That  's  where  Sue  used  to 
live.  Lord,  you  ought  to  seen  Sue.  That 
woman  was  a  terror  to  man  an'  beast.  She 
was  kind  o'  middle-sized,  like,  an'  built 
heavy,  a  devil  of  a  ways  across  the  shoul 
ders.  First  I  knowed  of  her  she  come 
heavin'  in  from  the  south  along  with  the 
slant-sidedest-mouthed  boy  you  ever  seen. 
The  feller  was  n't  more  'n  twelve,  an' 
white-headed  an'  screwed  up  in  the  face  — 
Lord,  the  ungodliest-lookin'  boy! 

They  was  ridin'  a  couple  o'  rickety  ani 
mals,  with  skillets  an'  bedtickin'  an'  guns 
an'  one  thing  another  tied  onto  a  pore, 
little,  measly  burro.  I  seen  'em  comin'  up 
the  trail,  an'  I  could  see  the  red  o'  that 

185 


186  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

woman's  face  at  two  hunderd  yards,  an'  the 
way  her  jaw  was  cut  square-like. 

She  says  her  an'  the  boy,  which  she  called 
Bill,  was  huntin'  fer  a  cabin  fer  to  stay  in, 
havin'  got  part  o'  the  Blackwater  Mesa  fer 
a  little  herd  o'  sheep  that  some  cow-punch 
ers  was  bringin'  along  up  a  mile  er  so  be 
hind,  an'  she  heard  I  was  n't  usin'  the  one 
up  the  canon,  an'  her  an'  Bill  wanted  it. 
I  says,  was  there  jus'  her  an'  Bill  ?  She 
says,  Lord,  she  hoped  so,  an'  turned 
around  to  the  screw-faced  young  'n1, 
makin'  him  wince.  I  finally  let  'em  have 
it,  an'  before  long  they  was  settled. 

They  'tended  mostly  to  their  own  busi 
ness,  an'  I  would  n't  'a'  knowed  they  was 
there  'cept  sometimes  of  a  still  evenin'  I 
could  hear  Bill  whistlin'  'way  up  yonder,  er 
maybe  yellin'  at  bein'  beat.  An*  some 
times  she  'd  come  down  to  borrow  some- 
thin'  er  ask  about  one  thing  another. 

After  while,  though,  it  was  different. 
The  days  goin'  on,  she  used  to  be  here 
most  ever'  evenin',  sometimes  leavin*  Bill 
locked  up.  You  could  hear  him  hollerin'. 
An'  she  'd  set  in  here  an'  talk  about  bein' 
lonesome.  There  wasn't  nobody  here 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  187 

then  but  me  an'  Ofelia,  old  Mexican  cook 
I  used  to  keep,  an'  a  cow-puncher.  An' 
she  'd  set  fer  hours  talkin'  about  how  lone 
some  she  was,  an'  the  sheep,  an'  rheuma 
tism,  an  one  thing  another.  She  says 
how  hard  it  was  fer  a  woman  with  in- 
stincks  fer  to  be  an  old  maid.  She  laid  a 
heap  o'  store  by  her  instincks,  an'  'lowed 
in  a  harsh  sort  o'  voice  that  things  around 
did  n't  suit  her  somehow. 

It  was  n't  till  she  had  done  like  that  sev 
eral  times  that  I  begun  to  see  she  had  her 
eyes  on  me.  Lord,  the  joke  tickled  me. 
So  I  humored  her,  an'  told  her  candid  that 
she  did  n't  have  no  sentiment.  I  says  a 
woman  ought  to  be  kind  o'  gentle  like  an' 
soft,  which  she  could  see  herself  she  lacked 
a  sight  o'  bein'.  I  says  to  camm  down'  an' 
kind  o'  soften  up.  She  was  mighty  free 
an'  open,  but  so  hard  like  an'  straight- 
for'ard. 

Well,  I  was  in  Watrous  one  day,  an'  a 
feller  come  up  to  me  an'  says  he  was  from 
Missouri.  He  was  the  measliest-lookin' 
man  I  ever  seen,  'bout  twenty-six  years 
old,  an'  short  an'  kind  o'  crushed  up  in  the 
face.  He  had  stringy  white  hair  an'  a  little 


1 88  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

fuzz  o'  mustache  white  an'  greased.  He 
was  kind  o'  dressed-up-lookin',  only  out 
of  a  pore  kind  o'  store  clo'es.  I  'm  a  perty 
tough  old  hoss  an'  lived  out  wild  a  most 
devilish  long  while,  but  I  can  tell  a  man 
what  is  dressed  up  from  a  man  what  ain't 
got  sense  enough  to  know  that  he  ain't. 

This  feller  says  he  was  here  fer  his 
health  an*  wanted  to  git  out  where  it  was 
wild.  He  says  he  'd  pay  a  good  price  fer 
board,  if  I  'd  let  him  come.  I  was  needin* 
the  money,  an'  I  finally  done  it. 

First  night  he  was  here  Sue  come  down, 
an'  Bill  follerin'.  Bill  he  stayed  out  in  the 
kitchen  eatin',  an'  Sue  come  in  an'  set 
down.  She  got  up  a  talk  with  the  feller 
from  Missouri,  an*  I  could  see  her  eyein' 
him  close  all  evenin*.  I  might  as  well 
call  him  Siss  at  the  start,  fer  that 's  what 
all  us  cow-punchers  got  to  callin'  him. 
His  name  was  somethin'  like  Crisistus, 
but  the  cowboys  got  turned  against  him 
an*  says  he  was  a  no-'count  cuss,  anyhow. 

Well,  Sue  talked  a  heap  about  its  bein' 
lonesome  fer  a  female  out  here,  an'  wanted 
to  know  all  about  Missouri,  an'  come 
mighty  near  wearin'  the  little  cuss  out. 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS   189 

An'  when  she  went  home  I  could  see  by 
the  way  she  saddled  up  her  horse  an'  cussed 
Bill  that  somethin'  new  was  comin'  in 
sight.  An'  after  her  an'  Bill  had  pulled 
out,  Siss  he  set  kind  o'  subdued-like  an' 
did  n't  say  much. 

After  that  she  come  regular  an'  in 
vited  him  up  there,  but  he  would  n't  never 
go.  He  always  looked  all  kind  o'  done 
up.  Lord,  she  was  twice  as  big  as  him. 
An'  her  an'  Bill  'd  stay  fer  dinner  er  sup 
per,  an'  she  'd  set  opposite  Siss  an'  eat  like 
it  was  a  steady  business  with  her.  But 
Bill  he  was  the  eatinest  boy  ever  I  seen. 
That  white-headed,  screw-face  young  'n' 
'd  chew  so  devilish  elaborate  that  Siss  'd 
lay  down  his  knife  an*  fork  an'  not  eat 
nothin'. 

After  while  I  could  see  him  watchin' 
fer  her  ever'  day  out  o'  the  winder.  An' 
when  he  'd  see  her  comin'  he  'd  light  out. 
But  she  'd  set  around  till  he  come  back. 
An'  sometimes  she  'd  come  in  on  him 
without  him  expectin'  it,  an',  Lord,  he  'd 
jus'  look  plumb  miserble.  I  knowed  he 
dreaded  the  sight  of  her,  an'  yet,  d'  you 
know,  I  had  an  idea  there  was  somethin' 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

kind  o'  fascinatin'  about  it.  I  've  seen 
him  git  pale  an'  shake,  hearin'  her  comin* 
around  the  house,  an'  yet  he  'd  set  right 
up  by  the  hour,  spite  of  himself,  an* 
mumble  along,  her  forcin'  him  into  it. 

It  went  on  like  that  fer  a  good  many 
weeks,  an*  I  could  see  Sue  was  gittin' 
discouraged,  but  she  did  n't  let  up.  Once 
when  he  was  gone  she  come  in  an'  set 
there  where  you  're  settin'  an*  looked  sorry. 
She  went  on  as  to  how  deep  her  feelin* 
fer  him  was,  how  it  jus'  come  up  sudden 
an'  overwhelming  an' what  was  she  to  do? 
I  says  I  thought  already  she  was  doin1 
ever'thing  a  lady  could  reasonable  be  ex 
pected  to  do.  But  she  says  she  appeared 
to  be  makin'  mighty  pore  headway,  fer 
he  was  cold,  somehow — not  touched  none. 

I  says  :  "  Sue,  it  's  like  this,  what  I  told 
you  before — you  ain't  got  no  sentiment." 

She  says  somehow  she  could  n't  git  the 
hang  of  it. 

I  says:  u  You  want  to  be  soft-like  — 
not  so  turrible.  It  's  fer  a  woman  to  be 
gentle." 

"  Well,"  she  says,  kind  o'  hard,  "  ain*t 
I  gentle  ?  Lord,  Si,  I  've  done  a  sight  o* 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  191 

holdin'  in  on  his  account.  You  ought  to 
see  what  I  can  be." 

"  But  Sue,"  I  says,  tc  the  trouble  is  jus' 
this.  You  ain't  female  enough." 

She  took  it  sorrowful,  an'  leaned  over 
an'  thought  some,  an'  says  : 

"Lord,  I'd  be  more  if  I  knowed  how. 
I  'm  jus'  goin'  along  natural,  an*  I  can't 
help  its  not  bein'  no  softer.  Somehow  it 
do  n't  feel  soft.  Cussed  if  I  believe  it  is 
soft.  I  never  was  no  hand  at  what  you 
call  sentiment  I  don't  know  what  it 
means,  much,  unless  it's  like  chuckin' 
him  under  the  chin  an'  one  thing  another. 
I  reckon  I  could  do  that  with  practice,  but 
it'd  come  unhandy,  somehow,  an'  besides 
I  believe  it'd  scare  him." 

"Lord,"  I  says,  "it  would,  Sue ;  there 
ain't  no  doubt  of  it.  But  there  ain't  no 
use  goin'  to  extremes.  Now  chuckin' 
him  under  the  chin  at  this  stage  o'  the 
game,"  I  says,  "  would  be  goin'  to  ex 
tremes.  Come  it  lighter,  more  gradual." 
I  looked  solemn  at  her,  an'  pointed  with 
my  finger  at  her  like  this,  an'  I  says  : 

"I  '11  tell  you  what,  Sue,  with  a  woman 
it's  mostly  the  eyes.  Them  's  the  things 


i92  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

that  counts.  You  want  to  practice  'em 
up.  Git  'em  by  all  odds  to  lookin'  lan- 
guider.  Languid  is  the  word.  With  a 
energetic  critter  like  you,  Sue,  it  '11  be 
mighty  difficult,  I  know,  fer  you  do  n't  feel 
languid,  not  by  a  devil  of  a  sight ;  but 
practice  'en\  up." 

She  set  up  straight,  makin'  them  shoul 
ders  o'  hers  look  twice  as  broad.  She  says: 

"  Would  that  do  it  ?  " 

I  says  :  u  If  it  was  done  thorough,  it 
would  do  it." 

She  says  she  could  n't  think  o'  nothin' 
that  'd  come  harder.  She  says  she  'd 
rather  break  a  even  dozen  bronchos  any 
day.  But  she  reckoned  the  thing  'd  have 
to  be  done. 

I  says  :  u  It  ain't  so  hard  if  you  can  git 
the  hang  of  it.  It  comes  mostly  from 
lookin1  sideways  'stead  o'  straight."  I 
says :  "  Notice  all  them  women  that 's 
well-married,  an'  nine  out  o'  ten  of  'em 
looks  sideways,  kind  o'  tender-like,  er  if 
they  do  n't  it 's  because  they  've  got  out  of 
the  habit  of  it."  I  says:  "You  don't 
appear  to  do  nothin'  delicate  enough.  Sue, 
you  've  got  to  work  yourself  up  tenderer." 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  193 

She  was  lookin'  all  beat  out.  She  says 
she  guessed  it  was  the  last  hope,  but,  Lord, 
she  dreaded  it. 

•  I  says  :  u  It  ain't  only  the  last  hope,  Sue. 
You  ought  n't  to  begin  lookin'  at  it  morbid 
that  way.  That 's  unhealthy.  It 's  a 
female  privilege,  that 's  what  it  is — a 
female  privilege.  It  ought  to  give  you  a 
meller  feelin'.  Why,  Sue,"  I  says, "  ain't 
you  got  nothin'  in  no  ways  sweet  in  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  kind  o'  sad  an'  says 
she  had  never  laid  no  store  by  any  sich 
things.  She  says :  "  Sich  things,  Si,  I 
know  'd  be  mighty  unpleasant  an'  trouble 
some  to  have.  It'd  be  like  eatin'  too 
much.  But  if  it  's  necessary,  I  wished  to 
the  Lord  I  had  'em,  an'  in  any  quantity  so  's 
they'd  do  the  work  ;  an'  I  'd  be  willin'  to 
stand  it.  An'  what 's  more,  Si,  I  'm  ready 
now  to  begin  workin'  'em  up.  I  '11  try 
fer  all  I  'm  worth,  by  thunder,  to  be  deli- 
cate-like  an'  languider  !  " 

Well,  she  done  it.  An',  Lord,  it  was 
pitiful.  The  days  goin'  by,  the  effect  on 
Siss  was  worse.  He  got  so  he  could  n't 
run,  ner  have  no  energy  to  hide,  ner  nothin'. 
When  he  'd  hear  her  comin'  he  'd  jus'  git 


i94  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

pale  an'  kind  o'  shrivel  all  up,  an'  set  down 
silent  an'  wait  fer  her  to  come  in.  I  never 
seen  a  man  so  tumble  fascinated,  an' 
dreadin'  the  very  air,  too,  all  the  time,  fer 
fear  she  was  somewhercs  in  it.  It  jus'  eat 
the  health  right  out  o'  the  pore  little  cuss. 

All  along  while  she  was  tryin'  to  be  ten 
der,  she  got  even  with  herself  on  Bill.  It 
was  turrible  the  spite  she  took  out  on  that 
screw-faced  young  'n'.  It  done  her  good, 
when  Siss  was  n't  nowheres  near,  to  cuss 
Bill  an'  club  him  around.  An'  she  told  me 
private  that  the  only  way  she  could  work 
herself  up  in  any  ways  tender  was  to 
whale  Bill  before  she  come  down,  an'  I 
guess  she  done  it.  An'  Bill  he  hated  Siss 
like  poison,  fer  he  seen  how  it  was  ;  an' 
ever'  time  he  seen  him  he  ducked  his  head 
an'  went  off  mutterin'.  An'  Siss,  some 
how  he  got  thinner.  I  could  see  the  thing 
was  workin'  unhealthy  on  his  mind,  an'  he 
growed  morbid-like. 

I  seen  it  was  workin'  up  to  a  point,  fer 
neither  of  'em  could  stand  it  much  longer 
without  somethin'  happenin'.  Fer  a  day 
er  two  Sue  was  discouraged  again.  I 
could  tell  it  by  the  way  she  let  Bill  alone 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS   195 

an'  did  n't  cuss  him  er  nothin*.  After 
while  she  come  to  me. 

"  Si,"  she  says  "  I  'm  afraid  it  ain't  do- 
in'  no  good." 

I  says  :  u  You  Ve  got  him  overcome. 
He  do  n't  say  nothin',  because  it 's  too 
strong  on  him." 

She  says :  u  I  think,  by  the  Lord,  it 's 
my  duty  to  say  it  out  plain,  then,  if  he 
don't." 

I  wanted  to  see  the  thing  come  to  some 
kind  of  a  head,  an'  I  agreed.  I  says : 
u  Well,  I  reckon  you  're  right — only  do 
it  meller." 

I  think  Bill  got  the  ungodliest  beatin' 
that  night  that  he  ever  seen,  an'  the  next 
mornin'  I  was  in  the  stable  there  where 
the  dobeys  is  out,  leavin'  that  hole  at  the 
back.  They  thought  I  was  down  the 
medder,  an'  she  found  him  settin'  on  an 
old  piece  of  a  hay-rake  back  there  where  I 
could  see  through  the  hole,  they  bein'  out 
side  an'  me  inside.  She  says  kind  o'  hol 
ler  : 

"  Ain't  I  tender  enough?  " 

Siss,  he  shrunk  up  an'  did  n't  say  noth 
in'. 


196  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

She  says  :  u  'Cause  it  's  pure  female 
affection,  whatever  it  looks  like." 

Siss,  he  begun  to  shake  some. 

She  says:  "I  never  had  the  hang  o' 
bein'  delicate  an'  fondlin',  an'  maybe  that 's 
why  you  ain't  seen  through  it.  But,  Lord, 
I  've  done  a  devil  of  a  sight  o'  cuitivatin' 
it!" 

Siss  was  jus'  plumb  white.  She  went 
on  an'  says  : 

u  This  has  been  the  wearinest  thing 
that  ever  come  on  me.  I  recognize  that 
I  did  n't  know  how  to  handle  it,  an'  it 's 
nigh  made  me  crazy.  But  it  's  real  stuff, 
an'  I  want  you  to  take  it  like  it  is.  I  've  done 
all  I  knowcd  how  to  put  somethin'  soft  in  it. 
I  'm  made  kind  o'  different,  somehow,  an* 
it  come  hard,  but  if  it  '11  work  I  'm  glad  I 
done  it.  Say,  was  there  anything  wrong 
with  it?" 

Siss,  he  was  in  a  cold  sweat,  settin'  still 
as  a  corpse,  an  lookin'  at  her  'bout  half 
way  up.  She  waited  a  minute  an'  says  : 

"  O  Lord  !  do  n't  take  no  account  o' 
what  it  looks  like.  What  it  is,  is  love. 
I  've  done  said  it  now.  It  's  a  word  that 
comes  hard  an'  do  n't  seem  to  fit  nothin', 


HIS   TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  197 

but  that 's  what  it  is.  I  never  knowed 
how  to  make  it  look  like  that,  an'  was 
afraid  you  could  n't  see  it.  I  knowed 
myself  I  did  n't  have  the  hang  of  it,  an' 
cussed  myself  fer  makin'  it  look  like 
ever'thing  else  but  that.  I  knowed  all 
along  it  was  failin'  fer  its  looks.  That 's 
why  I  've  said  it  out  plain.  Do  n't  you 
believe  that  's  what  it  is  ?  " 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  Siss,  an'  Sue  shifted 
back'ards  an'  for'ards  an'  begun  again.  She 
says  : 

"  Honest,  I  Ve  done  ever'thing  I 
knowed  how.  What  else  can  I  do  now  but 
jus'  plain  say  what  it  is?  An'  ain't  I  done 
said  it  ?  It  sounds  out  o'  shape,  but  I 
done  it  the  best  I  knowed  how,  an'  if  I 
had  any  idea  it  was  necessary  I  'd  do  it 
again,  though  it  ain't  natural.  I  hope  to 
the  Lord  you  understand  it  out  clear  an' 
full,  fer  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  I  can't 
stand  the  unnatural  strain  o'  this  much 
more.  Say,  is  it  all  right  ?  " 

Siss  kind  o'  groaned.  Sue,  she  looked 
on  beat  out,  an'  finally  she  set  her  jaw  an' 
out  with  it. 

"Well,  by  thunder!"   she  says,  loud, 


198  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

"  it 's  this  !  I  want  to  marry  you.  Say, 
it  's  wearin'  me  out,  an'  I  Ml  say  the  whole 
thing  clean  to  the  limit.  Will  you  marry 
me  ?  " 

She  stood  over  him  an'  stared  at  him, 
fergittin'  all  about  tryin'  to  be  tender. 
An',  by  thunder,  the  thing  worked !  How 
she  ever  done  it  I  do  n't  see.  She  must 
'a'  had  him  tangled  in  the  head,  somehow, 
fer  after  a  minute  o'  starin'  at  her  he  jus1 
throwed  up  his  hands  an*  says,  kind  o' 
wild  : 

"  O,  Lord,  Lord,  yes  !  " 

Then  she  slid  down  an'  did  n't  say  no 
more. 

Sue,  she  heard  that  the  priest  from 
Vegas  was  to  be  up  at  Rayado  in  two 
weeks,  an'  that  evenin'  she  had  it  all  laid 
out  that  Siss  an'  her  was  to  borrow  my 
wagon  an'  take  one  o'  her  horses  an*  one 
o'  mine,  her  other  one  bein'  lame,  an'  go 
up  there  then  an'  git  the  thing  done.  An' 
the  time  goin'  on,  all  them  two  weeks 
Siss  looked  jus'  plumb  miserble.  Sue,  she 
dropped  all  her  soft  ways  o'  puttin'  on, 
right  off.  She  come  to  me,  though,  soon 
after  she  had  fixed  it  up,  an'  says  she  owed 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS   199 

me  a  heap  fer  showin'  her  how,  that  I  'd 
'a'  been  surprised  to  see  how  smooth  it 
worked,  an'  that  as  long  as  she  lived  she  'd 
never  cease  to  thank  the  Lord  me  an'  her 
got  together  an'  figgered  it  out. 

Well,  it  went  on  like  that  till  about 
three  days  before  the  day  the  priest  was 
comin'  to  Rayado,  Siss  lookin'  miserbler 
an'  miserbler,  an'  her  nailin'  things  here 
an'  there  around  the  house,  an'  one  thing 
another,  an'  sailin'  round  after  him.  'Long 
about  that  time,  one  evenin'  there  was  a 
brother  of  Ofelia's,  old  Mexican  from  up 
round  Raton,  come  an'  told  Ofelia  that  he 
was  in  a  heap  o'  trouble  about  a  girl  o' 
his  what  wanted  to  run  off  with  a  feller 
him  an'  her  ma  hated.  He  had  took  the 
girl  to  Springer  an'  left  her  there  with 
another  brother  o'  theirs,  an'  come  out 
here  to  see  if  he  could  n't  bring  her  out. 
He  says  he  wanted  to  git  her  away  off 
from  anywheres,  like  this,  an'  keep  her 
here  fer  a  while  an'  see  if  she  would  n't 
git  over  it.  I  did  n't  raise  no  objection, 
an'  the  next  day  about  noon  he  come  an' 
left  her  here. 

She  was  a  slim  sort  o'  girl,  'long  about 


200  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

nineteen,  an*  kind  o'  smart  an'  sassy- 
lookin'.  I  seen  that  sassy  way  she  had 
o'  jerkin'  her  head,  quick  as  she  got  out 
o'  the  wagon.  An',  Lord,  but  her  eyes 
was  black!  She  was  n't  by  no  means  a 
bad-lookin'  girl;  don't  know  but  I  'd  call 
her  uncommon  perty,  if  it  had  n't  been  fer 
somcthin'  kind  o'  wild-lookin'  an'  mussed- 
up  about  her. 

Well,  I  begun  to  see  trouble  before  she  'd 
been  in  the  house  an  hour.  I  could 
see  it  in  the  way  Siss  eyed  at  her.  Why, 
that  feller  had  n't  hardly  looked  up  off  the 
floor  fer  two  weeks.  She  made  herself  at 
home,  an'  jus'  took  the  whole  house  in 
without  no  delay;  an'  I  seen  Siss's  eyes 
follerin'  her  around  from  one  place  to  an 
other,  an'  his  hands  twitchin'  like.  An* 
he  went  around  the  rest  o'  the  evenin'  in  a 
sort  o'  dream. 

Sue  come  down,  too,  an'  Bill  follerin'. 
An'  Sue  seen  somethin'  in  him  immediate 
that  scented  o'  trouble,  an'  she  watched 
the  girl  an'  cussed  Bill  a  heap.  The  girl's 
name  was  Josefita,  an'  I  seen,  too,  that  the 
thing  was  mighty  comical  to  her.  She 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  201 

watched  them  two  like  she  'd  give  a  devil 
of  a  sight  to  git  some  fun  out  of  'em. 

Well,  next  mornin'  I  heard  her  git  up 
spry  an'  whistlin',  an*  I  seen  in  her  eyes 
that  somethin'  was  up.  She  had  a  kind  o' 
glitter  in  'em,  an'  went  around  laughin'  an' 
havin'  a  devil  of  a  time.  An'  along  about 
breakfast  she  begun  to  work  it.  She  begun 
lookin'  sweet  an'  interested  at  Siss,  an'  no- 
ticin'  him  plain, an'  at  breakfast  she  set  next 
him  an'  done  a  heap  to  draw  him  out. 
She  'd  smile — Lord  !  an'  throw  her  sassy 
head  around  an'  look  at  Siss  sideways,  an' 
jus'  run  on  mixin'  up  talk  an'  laugh  an' 
smilin'  an'  one  thing  another.  An'  before 
the  meal  was  over  Siss  hove  a  big  sigh,  an' 
laid  down  his  fork,  an'  did  n't  eat  no  more. 
You  see,  she  had  all  them  things  Sue  had 
tried  to  put  on,  an'  had  'em  uncommon 
too;  an'  it  was  sich  a  change  to  Siss  that  I 
reckon  he  felt  like  a  famishin'  man  that  's 
found  water.  It  was  curious  to  watch 
him.  That  was  the  day  before  the  one 
Sue  had  set  to  go  to  Rayado  an'  git  mar 
ried. 

I  was  watchin'  Josefita   an'  anticipatin* 


202  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

somethin'  all  along,  an'  thought  a  heap  all 
day  about  had  n't  I  ought  to  step  in  an' 
keep  her  down.  I  done  jus'  one  thing 
wrong.  I  waited  too  long.  But,  Lord, 
it 's  natural  enough  she  fooled  me  too. 
That  woman  could  'a*  fooled  the  angel 
Gabriel.  If  she  'd  set  them  eyes  on  him 
an'  begin  workin'  it  up  sweet,  cussed  if  he 
would  n't  leave  his  horn  an'  foller  her 
off. 

The  way  she  done  it  I  did  n't  learn  fer 
a  long  while,  but  accordin'  to  what  she 
told  afterward  it  was  like  this.  She  had 
him  plumb  crazy  by  noon.  Along  after 
dinner  she  roped  him  in  to  walkin'  down 
the  medder  with  her,  an'  around  that  little 
mesa  yonder,  while  Sue  was  up  to  her 
house  gittin'  the  last  things  ready — an' 
Bill.  Then  I  reckon  she  gethered  herself 
up  an'  begun. 

She  told  me  afterward  she  begun  pitiful 
about  bein'  kep'  off  here,  away  from  am  - 
body  that  sympathized  with  her  er  knowed 
how  deep  her  feelin's  was.  Well,  that 
kind  o'  set  Siss's  insides  to  flutterin'  around. 
Finally  he  says  out  strong  that  he  could 
sympathize  with  her;  he  knowed  how  it 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  203 

was.  She  says  she  was  endurin'  it  all 
alone,  an'  it  made  her  heart  feel  like  it 
would  bust.  Siss,  he  said  he  pitied  her 
from  the  bottom  o'  his,  an'  he  wished  to 
the  Lord  he  was  so  fixed  he  could  do  some- 
thin'. 

Then  Josefita  turned  round  an'  looked 
clean  through  him  ungodly  sweet,  an' jus' 
carried  him  off  his  feet.  She  said  she  knowed 
it  was  unwomanlike  to  talk  to  a  stranger 
this  way,  an'  she  felt  she  had  n't  the  right 
to,  an'  her  conscience  hurt  her,  but  her 
bosom  was  so  full  she  jus'  could  n't  help 
it,  a  woman's  feelin's  bein*  unable  to  keep 
in  after  a  certain  point ;  an'  anybody  could 
see  right  off  that  he  was  a  true  kind  of  a 
man  with  a  big  heart.  An'  she  asked  him 
if  he  had  less  respect  fer  her  fer  doin'  it. 

An'  Siss,  he  come  out  an'  says,  fer  the 
Lord  no!  she  showed  herself  to  be  in  ever' 
particular  a  woman  he  admired,  an'  fer  her 
to  jus'  talk  right  out — it  done  him  good. 

Josefita,  she  walked  on  silent  a  while  to 
let  it  work  in.  An'  perty  soon  she  turned 
an'  looked  at  him  like  that  way  again  that 
jus'  took  his  breath,  an'  says,  since  she 
had  got  to  know  him  better  an*  feel  that 


204  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

he  was  a  man  she  could  trust  an'  look  up 
to  as  a  friend,  she  naturally  did  n't  want 
to  do  nothin'  to  hurt  his  idea  of  her ;  an' 
she  was  afraid  he  misunderstood  her. 

Siss,  he  swore  up  an'  down  he  did  n't 
understand  nothin'  bad  of  her,  an'  if  he 
had,  why,  Lord,  jus' her  looks  was  enough. 

But  Josefita,  she  says  she  knowed  she 
had  been  represented  as  wild  after  another 
feller  in  Raton,  an'  she  could  n't  bear  not 
to  tell  Siss  the  whole  truth  ;  she  'd  feel 
like  violatin'  the  trust  he  put  in  her.  So 
she  'd  confess  that  at  first  she  had  liked 
that  feller.  She  says  how  sorrowful  it  was 
that  a  young  girl  did  n't  always  know  her 
own  heart,  an'  sometimes  let  it  lead  her 
away.  She  drawcd  in  her  breath  an' 
turned  around  at  Siss  again  an'  says,  of 
late,  jus'  since  she  come  here,  the  pure  air 
an'  the  mountains,  an'  in  particular  the 
kind  folks  around  an'  the  feelin*  o'  sym 
pathy,  had  showed  her  how  she  had  went 
astray,  an'  made  her  see  herself  better. 
An'  she  says  she  hoped  he  would  n't  think 
no  less  of  her  fer  bein'  so  foolish. 

Well,  I  guess  Siss  was  jus'  overcome, 
an*  talked  wild  about  what  a  heap  more  he 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  205 

admired  her  fer  it,  an'  how  it  showed  that 
her  nature  was  lovin'  an'  tender,  a  thing  a 
woman  had  ought  to  be.  He  says,  lookin' 
up  toward  the  canon  where  Sue  lived,  that 
if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  his 
nature  yearned  fer  it  was  some  kind  o' 
tender  feelin'  like  hers. 

Josefita  says  what  she  admired  in  a  man, 
maybe  even  more  than  lots  o'  feelin',  was 
a  big,  darin'  nature.  She  says  she  could 
see,  now  that  her  eyes  was  opened,  that 
the  feller  in  Raton  was  n't  free  an'  darin' 
enough.  She  says  she  could  love  a  man 
that  could  wade  through  a  devil  of  a  sight 
fer  her,  an'  do  uncommon  sudden  things 
if  necessary.  Them  was  the  things  to  be 
most  admired  in  a  man.  An'  she  looked 
at  Siss  again,  an'  says  did  n't  he  think  so? 

Siss  was  sweatin'  a  little,  thinkin'  about 
Sue,  but  he  come  out  bold  an'  says  he  sure 
did,  an'  a  man  that  would  n't  was  n't 
worth  havin'  her.  She  says,  lookin'  at  him 
deep-like,  that  a  man  like  that  could  have 
her  undyin'  love,  an'  she  'd  cling  to  him 
through  the  worst  that  could  be  got  up. 

I  reckon  that  done  the  work  ;  an'  Siss 
jus'  poured  it  out.  He  begun  an'  he  told 


206  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

her  ever'thing,  an'  says  how  it  was  that 
Sue  had  jus'  shut  the  sun  out  o'  the  sky,  an' 
took  all  the  snap  out  of  him,  an'  made 
him  clean  crazy,  so  that  he  had  n't  knowed 
what  he  was  doin'  when  he  got  himself 
into  it.  He  says  he  had  passed  through 
weeks  o'  misery  like  nobody  ever  dreamed 
of  before,  that  his  nights  was  nightmares 
an'  his  days  swamps,  that  he  had  n't 
looked  fer  no  hope  till  Josefita  come.  He 
says  she  was  like  the  promised  land  to 
him,  an'  already  he  worshiped  her  per 
fectly  mad.  He  says  as  fer  dann',  why, 
his  love  fer  her  had  all  the  darin'  o'  terror; 
an'  Lord,  could  n't  they  manage  somehow 
to  git  out  o'  this! 

Josefita  was  jus'  clean  surprised  at  its 
workin'  so  well,  but  she  kep'  her  head  an' 
give  in  slow,  an'  finally  it  was  fixed  up. 
You  see  that  was  her  scheme  from  the 
first,  to  git  away.  She  knowed  she 
could  n't  do  it  by  herself. 

Sue  had  been  cuttin'  round  at  a  devil  of 
a  rate  all  day,  gittin'  things  fixed  up  fer 
the  day  follerin',  makin'  a  new  step  at  the 
door,  an'  fixin'  up  the  harness,  an'  greas- 
in*  the  wagon,  an'  one  thing  another. 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  207 

An'  Bill,  he  crawled  round  holdin'  nails 
an'  fetchin'  hammers  an'  things,  an'  git- 
tin*  cussed  at.  Since  the  thing  had  been 
fixed  up,  Bill  had  n't  had  no  easier  time. 
Sue  'd  whale  him  jus'  because  she  felt 
high-strung.  Ever'  time  she  'd  see  Siss 
she  'd  feel  so  worked  up  at  its  havin' 
come  out  all  right,  that  she  'd  take  it  out 
on  Bill.  An',  Lord,  how  Bill  hated  the 
whole  thing  !  He  laid  all  his  trouble  on 
Siss ;  an'  it  was  that  that  come  into  play 
with  Josefita.  Nothin'  got  away  from 
that  woman.  She  figgered  it  out  like  this. 
In  the  first  place  the  thing  had  to  be 
done  that  night,  fer  jus'  let  mornin'  come 
an'  Sue  come  sailin'  round,  an'  she 
knowed  it  'd  all  be  up  with  Siss.  It  was 
goin'  to  be  a  dark  night,  an'  they  had  to 
go  up  the  west  trail  towards  the  mountains, 
fer  the  other  goes  down  the  prairie  towards 
Springer,  where  they  might  meet  some 
body  that  knowed  'em.  The  Cimarron 
trail,  towards  the  mountains,  is  mighty 
rough,  an'  unless  ]you  're  a  good  driver  an' 
know  it  like  a  book,  why  drivin*  it  in  the 
dark  is  jus'  plumb  impossible,  an'  she 
knowed  it. 


208  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

So  she  figgered  it  out  that  they  'd  git 
the  wagon  an'  the  horses  ready  at  the  first 
sign  o'  daylight.  Lord,  Sue  had  'em  all 
fixed  an'  ready  the  night  before,  right  here 
at  the  shed.  Then  they  was  to  pull  out, 
him  an'  her,  the  minute  there  was  any 
light  at  all.  She  knowed  there  was  n't 
no  dependence  to  be  put  on  Sue's  bein' 
asleep,  an'  she  was  afraid  Sue  'd  run  onto 
'em  startin',  er,  anyhow,  hear  the  wagon, 
fer  the  trail  up  that  way  do  n't  run  no 
great  ways  from  the  canon. 

Well,  she  finally  got  Bill  off  behind  the 
shed.  She  worked  on  his  hatin'  Siss  an* 
stretched  it,  an'  says  Bill  was  right,  that  it 
sure  was  Siss  that  made  Sue  beat  him. 
She  says  as  long  as  Siss  stayed,  there 
was  n't  no  use  o'  Bill  expectin'  no  peace. 
Bill  says  he  knowed  it.  So  she  told  him 
plain  that  her  an'  Siss  was  goin'  to  run 
off,  an'  asked  him  if  he  did  n't  wish  they 
would;  an'  the  screw-faced  young  'n'  says, 
Lord,  yes,  he  'd  do  anything  he  knowed 
how  to  help  'em. 

So  she  says,  did  he  reckon  he  could  be 
gin  along  about  one  er  two  o'clock  in  the 
night  to  gittin*  sick,  so  's  Sue  'd  be  occu- 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  209 

pied  tendin'  to  him.  Bill  says  he  could 
git  sick,  but,  Lord,  no  ordinary  sick  o' 
his  'd  bother  Sue  none.  Josefita  says, 
well,  could  n't  he  work  up  somethin'  that 
would  bother  her. 

Bill,  he  thought,  an'  screwed  up  his 
face  an'  scratched  that  there  white  head  o' 
his,  an'  after  while  says  he  could  have  a 
fit.  He  says  if  he  jus'  had  it  ordinary  it 
would  n't  make  no  difference  to  Sue,  but 
he  'd  make  it  so  tremendous  uncommon 
that  she  could  n't  help  herself.  He  says 
he  'd  have  it  in  the  middle  o'  them  clo'es 
she  had  laid  out  fer  the  weddin',  an'  that 
'd  fetch  her.  Josefita  was  took  back  at 
the  size  of  it,  but  she  seen  it  was  a  fine 
thing.  Only,  she  says,  was  he  sure  he 
could  handle  it  long  enough  ?  Bill  says, 
let  him  alone  fer  that.  So  they  fixed  it  up. 

The  last  thing  Sue  done  was  to  come 
sailin'  down  an'  tell  Siss  she  'd  be  up  by 
first  daybreak,  an'  she  wanted  him  to  be 
ready.  She  eyed  Josefita  a  heap,  but  Lord, 
Josefita  was  as  sweet  an'  innocent  as  you 
ever  seen,  an'  finally  Sue  went  off  up  the 
path  to  the  canon  fer  the  night,  an'  Bill 
follerin'. 


2io  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

I  reckon  Bill  did  n't  sleep  none  that 
night.  I  think  he  must  'a'  set  up  in  the 
dark  waitin',  an'  along  a  little  before  the 
first  break  o'  day  he  set  up  the  ungodliest 
racket  an'  breakin'  things  that  the  Lord 
ever  let  run  on.  I  seen  the  house  after 
wards,  an*  there  was  the  marks  of  it  ever'- 
wheres.  But  he  must  'a  miscalculated  er 
got  wore  out  er  somethin',  fer  he  finally 
let  up  an'  expected  her  to  light  in  an'  beat 
him,  which  'd  occupy  her  a  heap  ;  but  she 
never  done  it.  She  set  down  an'  lit  in  to 
mendin'  them  clo'es  up  desperate',  an'  fixin' 
things  so's  they'd  do.  I  reckon  it  was 
about  then  that  she  heard  the  rattle  o'  the 
wagon. 

About  daybreak  I  thought  in  the  middle 
of  a  dream,  like  a  feller  will,  that  I  heard  a 
noise  outside,  an'  directly  I  woke  up  an' 
was  listenin'  to  the  wheels  goin'  off  up  the 
trail.  Sounded  like  my  wagon.  By  the 
time  I  got  dressed  an'  went  out,  they  was 
'way  up  yonder  past  where  the  path  to  the 
canon  joins  the  trail.  I  was  jus'  a-won- 
derin'  what  kind  of  a  earthquake  Sue  'd 
turn  loose,  when  I  seen  her  runnin'  out  o' 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  211 

the  canon  after  'em  at  a  turrible  gait,  with 
a  lasso  in  her  hand,  swingin'  it  around  her 
head. 

Josefita  had  the  lines,  an'  she  seen  her 
when  she  got  perty  nigh  up,  dodgin' 
around  a  little  bunch  o'  scrub-oak  that 's 
up  that  way,  an'  Lord,  maybe  she  did  n't 
lay  whip  to  them  horses  !  Siss  he  hung 
onto  the  seat,  an'  they  lit  out  on  a  gallop. 
If  that  little  black-eyed  Spanish  woman 
had  'a'  been  a  second  later  with  her  whip, 
it  Jd  been  all  up  with  Siss,  fer  the  rope 
did  n't  miss  him  a  foot.  It  caught  the 
brake  an'  pulled  out  o'  Sue's  hand,  an'  the 
wagon  went  tearin'  on  with  Josefita  layin' 
on  with  the  whip  an'  lookin'  back  kind  o' 
wild  an'  sassy,  an'  Siss  holdin'  on  as  white 
as  a  sheet.  Sue  she  stood  in  the  trail,  an' 
when  I  come  up  she  jus'  looked  stunned, 
an'  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  git 
her  away. 

Well,  the  thing  was  done,  an'  they  was 
gone,  an'  there  was  n't  no  help  fer  it,  fer 
there  was  n't  but  one  other  horse  here  then 
besides  that  lame  one  o'  hers',  an'  I  had  the 
rheumatism  an'  would  n't  'a'  mixed  in  the 


212  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

thing,  noways.  I  knowed  I  'd  git  the 
wagon  back  somehow.  Think  of  her 
working  it  up  in  forty-eight  hours  ! 

Fer  two  days  Bill  ner  Sue  did  n't  come 
down,  an'  it  was  gloomy  round  here  with 
Ofelia  whimperin'  about  the  girl's  bein' 
gone.  Then  along  one  evenin'  Sue  come 
walkin'  down,  kind  o'  subdued,  Bill  foller- 
in'.  She  come  in  an'  set  there  fer  a  long 
time.  Finally  she  says  she  was  soured. 
She  looked  like  it  too.  I  tried  to  think  o' 
somethin'  to  say,  but  Lord,  there  jus' 
was  n't  nothin',  an'  I  set  still.  After  while 
she  broke  out  hard-like  at  me,  an'  says  she 
believed  I  showed  her  how  wrong.  She 
says  sentiment  was  kind  o'  like  fever,  that 
was  n't  no  natural  way  o'  warmin'  up,  but 
jus'  burnt  out.  I  jus'  smoked  an*  did  n't 
say  nothin'. 

After  while  she  said  she  guessed  gener 
ally,  when  people  turned  soured,  they 
wanted  to  git  away  from  the  world  an' 
stay  where  it 's  lonesome  an'  never  see 
nobody.  She  says  it  was  n't  that  way  with 
her.  She  says  it  made  her  restless.  She 
says  mornin'  was  jus*  as  miserble  as  night 
to  her,  an'  night  jus'  as  miserble  as  mor- 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  213 

nin',  an'  she  'd  been  ponderin' a  heap  about 
goin'  off  somewheres. 

"  Sue,"  I  says,  "  what  you  want  is 
somethin'  to  take  your  mind  off  it." 

She  says  it  was  soured  on  it,  but  some- 
thin'  might  make  it  a  heap  lighter.  She 
says  she  seen  that  little  cuss  in  a  dream 
ever'  night,  an'  woke  up  swearin'  at  him  in 
her  sleep. 

I  says  :  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  do,  Sue. 
Why  do  n't  you  go  to  Springer  an'  run  a 
hotel  ?  " 

She  looked  up  steady  an'  thought  a 
heap. 

I  says :  u  They  ain't  but  one  hotel 
there,  an'  it  's  high-priceder  than  us  rangers 
likes  when  we  go  to  town.  You  could 
run  it  specially  fer  rangers,  an'  like  as  not 
ketch  enough  trade  to  git  along.  Bill,  he 
could  help  around  a  heap." 

She  set  fer  mighty  near  an  hour  thinkin' 
about  it,  an'  finally  she  says  : 

"  Si,  I  '11  do  it." 

After  talkin'  about  it  some,  she  says: 

u  It  '11  keep  my  mind  off  bein'  soured 
on  ever'thing.  Maybe  I  '11  fergit  them 
cussed  two  an'  quit  seein'  'em  at  night. 


2i4  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

An'  there 's  one  thing,  Si,"  she  says, 
gittin'  up  solemn  an'  lookin'  at  me  hard 
an'  firm,  u  I  'm  done,  now  an'  ferever- 
more,  with  bein'  in  any  ways  soft.  Never, 
long  as  I  live,  so  help  me  the  Lord,  will  I 
fool  no  more  with  sentiment.  By  thunder, 
I  'm  female  enough  !" 

With  that  she  went  out,  an'  Bill  foller- 
in'.  An'  in  two  weeks  she  was  gone  to 
Springer  an'  set  up  a  little  one-hoss  hotel 
what  she  called  the  Rangers'  Paradise.  An' 
it  was  n't  more  'n  a  couple  o'  weeks  more 
till  a  Mexican  come  bringin*  back  the 
wagon.  He  says  a  little  white-headed 
feller  an*  a  Spanish-lookin'  woman  had 
give  him  money  to  fetch  it  back.  He 
did  n't  know  only  that  they  was  over  at  a 
little  station  on  the  narrow-gauge  the  other 
side  o'  the  mountains,  an*  says  they  had 
borrowed  the  wagon  an'  did  n't  need  it  no 
more. 

It  was  'long  towards  round-up  time,  an' 
I  heard  somethin'  about  new  freight-rates 
on  the  railroad  fer  cattle,  an*  went  to 
Springer  one  day  to  do  a  little  tradin*  an' 
find  out.  I  et  dinner  at  Sue's  an'  talked 
to  her  some.  She  had  Bill  with  an  apern 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  215 

makin'  him  wait  on  the  table.  She  says 
she  was  gittin'  some  over  it,  but  time  only 
showed  that  she  was  really  turned  soured. 

'Long  towards  four  o'clock  I  heard  there 
was  a  cattle-buyer  over  at  the  old  hotel, 
an'  went  an'  hunted  him  up.  I  made  a 
deal  with  him,  an'  was  still  settin'  in  what 
they  called  the  parlor,  figgerin'  out  how 
much  the  cattle  was  comin'  to,  the  cattle- 
buyer  havin'  gone. 

Perty  soon  I  heard  the  door  open  behind 
me.  I  turned  around  an'  seen  Josefita 
standin'  there  lookin'  at  me  that  sassy  way 
o'  hers.  She  set  down  cool  an'  talked  an* 
acted  like  she  'd  been  settin'  there  camm 
ever  since  she  was  born ;  an'  finally  I  got 
the  whole  thing  out  of  her. 

She  told  me  a  long  tale  about  how  she 
hauled  Siss  around  down  to  Santa  Fe  by 
the  narrow-gauge,  an'  to  Las  Vegas,  an' 
one  place  another,  an'  finally  his  money 
had  give  out  jus'  as  they  got  here.  She 
says  she  had  promised  him  all  along  to 
marry  him  soon  as  they  got  to  Raton,  an' 
she  had  fixed  herself  up  with  her  folks. 
But,  Lord,  she  did  n't  want  me  to  think 
she  meant  it.  She  says  all  along  she 


216  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

wanted  to  jus'  git  to  Springer  an'  git  money 
from  her  uncle  an'  pull  out  an'  leave  Siss 
an'  go  home  an'  behave  herself.  She  says 
now  she  had  got  here  her  uncle  would  n't 
let  her  have  the  money,  an'  I  was  her  last 
hope.  Would  n't  I  please  lend  her  jus' 
car-fare  to  Raton?  I  says,  where  was  Siss? 
an'  she  says  he  was  down  at  the  stores 
somewheres. 

Well,  I  thought  a  devil  of  a  sight,  an' 
finally  I  done  it.  I  thought,  after  all,  it 
was  the  best  thing  there  was.  She  says  all 
she  wanted  was  to  git  full  rid  o'  Siss,  an' 
Lord  help  her  if  she  ever  tried  to  run 
away  with  another  man.  It  looked  kind 
o'  tough  on  Siss,  but  I  never  did  like  the 
little  cuss  nohow,  an*  he  might  as  well  learn 
things  all  of  a  sudden  as  drag  'em  out  slow. 

Then  she  asked  all  about  Sue,  kind  o' 
interested.  I  says  Sue  was  in  town  an' 
keepin1  another  hotel  around  the  corner. 
Lord,  you  ought  to  seen  her  eyes  open! 
After  she  had  took  the  idea  full  in,  I  begun 
to  see  the  devil  comin'  back  in  her.  Her 
eyes  begun  to  dance,  an'  perty  soon  she 
bust  out  an'  laughed.  Then  she  jumped 
up  quick  an'  says: 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  217 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  do  it!  " 

"  Do  what?  "  I  says. 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  send  him  to  Sue's  hotel !  " 

I  jus'  leaned  back  nigh  speechless  an' 
says,  "O  Lord!" 

"It's  me  that  took  him  away,"  she 
says,  "  an'  it 's  me  that  '11  bring  him  back!  " 

I  tried  to  git  her  not  to,  but  it  was  n't 
no  use.  You  could  n't  persuade  her  out 
o'  nothin'  she  had  her  head  set  on.  So 
perty  soon  she  got  up  an'  left,  an'  I  went 
out  on  the  street  in  a  little  while  myself. 

I  seen  a  good  many  cowboys  that  was 
acquainted  out  this  way  standin'  around  in 
bunches  with  their  horses,  talkin',  an'  I 
come  to  find  out  that  some  of  'em  had 
jus'  seen  Siss  was  in  town,  an'  was  medi- 
tatin'  doin*  somethin'  to  him.  They  all 
hated  Siss  an'  stuck  up  fer  Sue.  I  told 
'em  I  believed  he  was  goin'  to  Sue's  hotel 
by  mistake.  They  seen  trouble  right 
away,  an'  started  round  fer  Sue's  place  to 
see  it  an'  help  her  out  if  she  needed  'em. 

Josefita  had  went  steppin'  down  the 
street  an'  hunted  up  Siss  at  a  little  old 
store  out  o'  the  way,  fer  Siss  did  n't  like  the 
idea  o'  showin'  himself.  She  says  to  him 


2i8  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

that  her  uncle  'd  give  her  the  money  in  the 
mornin',  so  they  'd  have  to  stay  in  Springer 
over  night.  She  says  it  would  n't  be  in  no 
ways  wise  fer  'em  to  be  at  the  same  hotel, 
an'  there  was  a  mighty  nice  new  hotel  over 
here  jus'  started  up.  Siss,  he  done  ever'- 
thing  she  said,  so  he  went  to  Sue's. 

Me  an'  the  cowboys  was  comin'  round 
the  corner  by  Sue's,  when  we  heard  her 
shriekin'  inside,  an'  next  minute  here  come 
Siss  tearin*  out  o'  the  hotel  without  no 
hat.  I  never  seen  sich  a  livin'  picture  o' 
terror.  He  made  a  kind  o'  low,  sandy- 
colored  streak  round  into  the  next  street, 
an'  Sue  come  bustin'  out  clean  gone  crazy; 
an*  Bill  follerin'.  She  stood  on  the  step, 
red  an'  pantin'  an'  yellin': 

"Ketch  him!  Ketch  him!  Fer  the  Lord 
ketch  him.  O  Lord!  O  Lord!" 

Ever'  cowboy  there  stuck  spurs  in 
his  horse  an'  set  out  at  a  run  after  Siss, 
gittin'  their  ropes  ready  as  they  went.  I 
reckon  they  chased  him  about  a  half-mile 
up  the  railroad  track,  an'  up  yonder  where 
the  cattlc-pcns  is  two  of  'em  that  was 
ahead  lassoed  him.  So  here,  perty  soon, 
they  come  bringin'  him  back,  leadin*  him. 


HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS  219 

When  they  got  to  that  open  place  there 
between  the  old  hotel  an'  the  depot,  here 
Sue  come,  trottin'  kind  o'  heavy,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  showin'  them  tumble 
arms  o'  hers,  an'  a  big  cattle-whip  in  her 
hand,  an'  Bill  follerin'.  She  was  hollerin' 
kind  o'  hoarse  : 

"  Let  me  at  him!  Hold  him  there,  now  ! 
Jus'  hold  him!  O  Lord!" 

About  six  o'  them  cow-punchers  lassoed 
Siss  an*  stood  their  horses  with  the  other 
ends  o'  the  ropes  out  in  a  circle  around 
him,  holdin'  him  drawed  up  tight  in  the 
middle;  an'  most  ever'body  in  town  was 
watchin'.  Siss's  knees  was  shakin'  tur- 
rible,  an'  I  tried  to  stop  'em  from  doin'  it, 
but  it  was  n't  no  use.  An'  Sue,  she  come 
in  between  two  o'  the  ropes,  an'  she  planted 
her  feet  hard,  an'  she  jus'  lit  in  an'  give 
that  feller  the  ungodliest  beatin'  that  I 
ever  seen  a  human  bein'  git.  An'  Bill  set 
on  a  pile  o'  cross-ties  an'  watched,  drinkin' 
it  in.  An'  in  the  middle  of  it  I  looked 
up,  an'  seen  Josefita  at  the  hotel  winder. 
She  looked  at  me  like  she  was  sorry  she 
done  it. 

When  Sue  was  plumb  wore  out,  she  let 


220  HIS  TERRIFYING  NEMESIS 

up  an'  went  off  up  to  the  hotel,  all  tired 
down  an'  slow,  draggin'  the  whip,  an'  her 
sleeves  still  rolled  up;  an'  Bill  follerin'. 
They  turned  Siss  loose,  an'  the  last  I  ever 
seen  o'  that  feller  was  next  mornin'  ridin' 
off  towards  Texas  on  a  miserble  old 
horse  somebody  took  pity  on  him  an*  give 
him. 

I  give  the  money  to  Josefita,  an*  she 
kep'  quiet  at  the  hotel,  so  Sue  never  seen 
her,  an'  went  off  up  to  Raton  that  night. 
An'  when  I  went  an'  seen  Sue,  she  says 
she  guessed  she  was  satisfied,  an'  things 
had  worked  out  better  'n  she  ever  expected, 
an'  she  thought  her  an'  Bill  'd  do  better 
with  the  hotel  now  it  was  off  her  mind. 
An'  Bill,  he  went  round  whistlin'. 


COLD  FACTS  AT  THE 
TAVERN 

¥ 

AT  nightfall  two  cowboys  rode  up 
to  the  "tavern"  under  the  mesa, 
picketed  their  horses  across  the 
trail,  and  entered  the  bar-room.  They 
were  lean,  smooth-faced  fellows,  one  of 
them  light  of  complexion  and  boisterous 
of  manner,  the  other  darker,  shorter,  and 
the  possessor  of  a  quizzical  expression  of 
countenance.  Beside  the  smirking  bar 
keeper  no  one  else  was  in  the  room  but  a 
man  of  much  whisker,  who  sat  in  a  corner 
with  his  hat  jammed  down  over  his  eyes. 

"  Rattle  'em  up,  rattle  'em  up,  Scaps  !  " 
said  he  of  the  boisterous  manner,  who 
answered  to  the  name  of  Mac.  "  Me  and 
Bill  's  thirsty — rattle  'em  up  !" 

Scaps  accordingly  rattled  them  up  to 
the  extent  of  two  foaming  glasses.  There 
was  a  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  the  two  took  chairs  beside  it. 


221 


222  COLD  FACTS 

"  Will  Petie  be  along  ?  "  queried  Mac. 
u  Why,  bless  my  soul — "  suddenly  break 
ing  off,  "  if  it  ain't  Jimmie  !  "  He  arose 
hilariously  and  clapped  him  of  the  whiskers 
resoundingly  on  the  back.  "Jimmie,  old 
boy  !  Ha,"  ha  !  The  Lord  help  us,  Bill, 
if  it  ain't  Jimmie  !  " 

Jimmie  appeared  somewhat  discon 
certed.  He  lifted  his  hat  and  did  an 
honorary  smile  of  recognition.  But  the 
surroundings  in  general  seemed  to  interest 
him  not  much. 

u  Cussed  if  it  ain't,"  said  Bill,  getting 
up  and  eyeing  the  man  with  much  interest. 

u  Well,  it  's  me  — yes  ;  and  there  's  an 
end  of  it.  Who  's  Petie  ?  " 

u  Petie  's  a  cow-puncher,  or  a  bum,  or 
something.  He  's  more  fun  than  a  hoss- 
race.  Ha,  ha  !  You  ought  to  hear  Petie 
tell  a  yarn,  now.  You  'd  laugh  yourself 
sick.  Rattle  'em  up,  Scaps,  rattle  'em 
up  !  ' 

41  Is  he  comin'  ?  "  inquired  Bill. 

"  Sure,"  said  Scaps. 

Indeed,  at  that  moment  Petie  himself 
appeared,  coming  in  at  the  door,  whistling 
gently  to  himself  and  looking  about.  He 


COLD   FACTS  223 

was  a  small,  slight  man,  somewhat  seedy 
in  appearance,  with  a  slouch  hat,  sharp 
eyes,  a  comical  expression,  little  round 
face,  and  fat  cheeks  like  those  of  a  baby. 
But  it  must  have  been  a  dissipated  baby  to 
wear  so  reddish-pink  a  complexion.  Petie 
clasped  his  chin  with  his  fingers,  made  a 
grimace  at  the  assembly,  and  whistled  to 
himself.  Then  he  said,  absently  : 

u  Mac,  Bill,  and  Whiskers — regular  set 
o'  devils." 

The  remark  called  forth  uproarious 
laughter  from  the  first,  a  critical  smile 
from  the  second,  and  a  grunt  of  disgust 
from  the  third  of  the  gentlemen  named. 

"  Rattle  'em  up  for  the  crowd,"  said 
Petie,  taking  his  seat  on  a  high  stool  by 
the  bar,  with  his  thumbs  in  his  vest  and 
his  back  to  the  bartender. 

"Well,  light  in  for  a  yarn,"  said  Bill, 
settling  his  feet  farther  under  the  table. 

"  Which  ?  "  said  Petie,  inquiringly. 

u  Tell  us  a  story  —  tell  us  a  story," 
said  Mac.  "  Thunder,  what  are  you  here 
for  ?  " 

"  Brother  Whiskers,"  said  Petie,  point 
ing  with  his  thumb,  "  might  be  annoyed." 


224  COLD   FACTS 

"  Aw,  let  up,"  growled  the  voice  under 
the  whiskers;  "go  on — go  on.  It  ain't 
nothin'  to  me!  " 

Petie  smiled  an  odd  smile. 

tl  If  I  told  you  this  here  tale,  gentle 
men,  you  'd  say  it  was  a  lie." 

The  hilarious  Mac  deemed  this  a  suffi 
ciently  ludicrous  introduction.  Bill  smiled 
deprecatingly. 

u  O  no,  O  no,"  he  observed. 

Petie  twisted  his  feet  into  the  rounds  of 
the  stool  and  looked  about  again  shrewdly 
at  the  company. 

"  Hard  lines  to  be  called  a  liar;  but, 
boys,  I  've  got  to  risk  it.  It  's  weighin* 
on  my  mind.  This  here  tale  is  as  true  as 
the  Catholic  Church,  by  San  Francisco!" 

u  Go  on,  go  on!  " 

"You  know  how  the  grass  grows  — 
Looky  here,  Bill;  you  're  too  critical ; 
do  n't  eye  a  feller  like  that ;  it  ain't  right. 
Well,  you  know  how  the  grass  grows 
around  here." 

"  We  know  how  it  do  n't  grow,"  said 
Bill. 

"  Well,  then,  you  know  how    it   do  n't 


COLD  FACTS  225 

grow.  There  's  spots  where  it  do  grow, 
and  spots  where  it  do  n't  grow.  She  sticks 
up  in  bunches  ;  she  do  n't  grow  all  to 
gether,  thick,  like  a  front  yard." 

uPsh!"  said  he  of  the  whiskers,  sud 
denly  lowering  himself  in  his  chair  in  an 
expression  of  disgust. 

Petie  eyed  the  interrupter  with  a  great 
and  bright  smile  playing  over  his  features. 

"  She  grows  several  inches  apart,"  con 
tinued  Petie. 

u  Ha,  ha!  "  broke  in  he  of  the  hilari 
ous  manner,  in  sudden  and  causeless  mirth. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Petie,  in  some 
concern,  "  do  n't  go  and  see  points  to  the 
tale  before  it  's  got  any.  Why,  thunder, 
I  ain't  begun!  " 

"  Well,  hurry  up!  "  put  in  Bill.  "  You 
ain't  artistic.'* 

"  She  grows  several  inches  apart,  and 
when  it 's  dry  she  dies  out  some  and  gits 
farther  apart,  so  that  it 's  bare  land  in  be 
tween.  And  when  it  gits  dryer  she  gits 
still  farther  apart,  and  it 's  a  foot  or  so 
from  one  bunch  to  the  other." 

"  Well,  it  ain't,"  said  Jimmie;  "  it  all 
dies  down  alike."  His  tone  was  one  of 


226  COLD   FACTS 

unutterable  scorn.  Petie  merely  smiled 
the  bright  smile. 

"  When  I  was  young,"  he  said,  "  it 
did  n't  rain  for  a  remarkable  long  time. 
We  set  around  prayin'  for  it,  and  the  cat 
tle  come  up  and  stood  around,  and  we  was 
prayin'  and  the  cattle  was  bawlin',  and 
altogether  we  raised  a  deuce  of  a  row  ;  but 
it  did  n't  rain.  Well,  these  here  bunches 
of  grass  got  thinner  and  thinner.  At  the 
start  there  was  five  or  six  inches  between 
'em  ;  first  we  knowed  there  was  a  foot. 
It  was  the  same  way  all  over  New  Mexico 
and  Colorado  and  Arizona,  and  Lord 
knows  where  all.  'Long  in  July  it  was 
as  dry — O,  well,  as  dry  as  Jimmie!  Rat 
tle  'em  up,  Scaps!" 

Jimmie  failed  to  repress  his  grunt  of 
contempt. 

"  You  're  spreadin'  it  out  too  much," 
said  the  critical  Bill;  "  you  ain't  artistic." 

u  Dryer 'n  Jimmie,"  mused  Mac,  shak 
ing  his  head  in  profound  amusement. 
"  Well,  what  happened  then?  " 

"  Why,  along  in  August  and  September 
and  October  we  kept  on  prayin'  for  rain, 
and  the  cattle  got  thinner  and  the  grass 


COLD  FACTS  227 

growed  farther  apart.  Ordinary  times  a 
steer  gits  enough  to  eat  just  walkin'  about, 
natural,  but  when  the  grass  got  so  far 
apart,  that  way  would  n't  work." 

"  Why,  how  did  they  git  enough  ? " 
queried  Bill. 

"  By  trottin'." 

"Which?" 

"Sure  thing.  Trottin'.  Nippin'  the 
bunches  on  the  trot.  Seen  'em  do  it 
many  a  time.  They  could  gather  up  enough 
that  way.  Them  as  could  n't  trot  from 
one  bunch  to  the  other,  died." 

He  of  the  whiskers  turned  his  back  to 
the  others,  thrust  his  feet  against  the  wall, 
and  pulled  his  hat  down  farther  over  his 
eyes.  The  liquor  which  the  gentleman 
called  Mac  had  imbibed  began  to  increase 
his  naturally  mirthful  tendencies.  He 
threw  back  his  head  and  howled.  Bill 
eyed  the  narrator,  who  proceeded: 

"  It  went  on  like  that  all  winter,  till  the 
next  spring.  November  the  bunches  of 
grass  was  five  feet  apart,  December  twenty 
feet,  January  nigh  onto  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  It  was  curious.  Cattle  begun  to 
be  raised  for  speed.  Them  as  could  trot 


228  COLD  FACTS 

like  the  devil  had  it  all  their  own  way. 
They  'd  light  out  of  a  mornin'  and  spin 
across  the  prairie,  nippin*  as  they  went, 
and  finally  git  a  full  meal.  Them  as 
could  n't,  died.  'Long  in  the  winter  even 
trottin'  would  n't  do.  A  steer  had  to  eat 
on  the  dead  run.  They  got  to  be  a  new 
kind  of  cattle  introduced  —  racin'  stock, 
lanky  and  lean-like.  All  around  they  was 
holdin'  fairs  and  dealin'  in  cattle  on  a  basis 
of  speed.  That  there  steer  that  could 
start  out  in  the  early  mornin'  in  Wyoming 
and  pull  up  with  a  full  meal  in  Texas  at 
night,  —  that  there  steer  was  the  one  that 
was  worth  the  money.  Then  the  next 
night  he  'd  come  thunderin'  back." 

Petie  stopped  and  clasped  his  chin  with 
his  hand  and  smiled  complacently  from  the 
stool  upon  the  company. 

u  What  's  the  little  idiot  talkin'  about  ?  " 
said  he  of  the  whiskers,  turning  in  his 
chair.  u  Do  you  fellers  believe  that  ?  " 

"  Every  word  of  it,"  said  Bill,  solemnly. 
The  liquor  was  making  Mac  take  a  more 
serious  view  of  the  story.  He  sat  up, 
drinking  in  the  details  with  a  foolish  look 
of  cogitation  on  his  face. 


COLD  FACTS  229 

"  Well,  by  this  time  they  was  all 
trained  to  gallop  terrible." 

"  That  's  good  !  that  's  good  !  "  said 
Mac,  soberly  ;  "  gallop  terrible." 

"  Why  gentlemen,"  continued  Petie, 
still  holding  his  chin,  u  it  was  a  matter  o' 
necessary  business  to  them  steers." 

"  Which  was  ?  "  said  Jimmie,  suddenly. 

"The  gallopin'.  I've  stood  out  a 
many  a  mornin'  and  seen  the  prairie  hot 
with  'em,  like  streaks  o'  lightnin'  or  shootin' 
stars,  goin'  every  way.  They  knowed 
well  enough  it  was  their  last  day  in  this 
here  world  if  they  did  n't.  And  some 
times  they  'd  git  onto  the  same  row  o' 
grass  goin'  opposite  ways,  and  meet  and 
bust  up  in  the  middle.  It  was  terrible. 
I  could  hear  'em  bustin'  up  that  way  all 
along  through  the  day." 

"Petie,"  said  Bill,  shaking  his  head 
solemnly,  "  that  sounds  to  me  like  a  lie." 

"  It  ain't,  though,  Bill — honest  it  ain't." 

u  Naw,"  said  Mac,  with  a  maudlin 
grin,  u  naw,  Billy,  it  ain't." 

Petie  smiled  and  pointed  with  his  thumb 
to  him  of  the  whiskers.  Jimmie  had  sunk 
lower  in  his  chair,  with  his  hat  resting  on 


230  COLD   FACTS 

the  bridge  of  his  nose.  They  could  hear 
his  deep  and  regular  breathing. 

"She  did  n't  rain, and  it  come  spring  and 
summer  again,  and  finally  August.  The 
bunches  was  a  mile  apart,  and  then  two 
miles,  and  then — " 

"  Lord,  Petie,"  said  Mac  ;  "  why,  they 
could  n't  stand  it — no  siree.  Nothin" 
could  stand  it.  Somethin'  'd  have  to  bust." 

IC  You  're  right.  Somethin'  did  bust. 
It  come  oncet  that  there  was  n't  but  one 
bunch  o'  grass  left  in  this  here  whole 
Western  country.  It  happened  of  a  Satur 
day  afternoon.  I  was  settin'  on  a  high 
rock  in  the  middle  o'  Colfax  County,  with 
the  prairie  all  around  as  far  as  any  man 
could  see,  and  there  was  that  little  bunch 
o'  grass  out  yonder  'bout  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  That  mornin'  every  steer  and  cow 
and  bull  in  New  Mexico  and  Colorado — 
O,  I  reckon  some  from  Wyoming  and 
Arizona  and  Texas — maybe  Utah,  had 
got  up  and  shook  himself  and  looked  out 
across  the  prairie  towards  Colfax  County, 
and  kind  o'  rose  up  on  his  toes  and  stretched 
himself  out  and  felt  of  his  muscles,  and 
drawed  in  a  deep  breath  and  just  lit  out. 


COLD   FACTS 


23 


Everywheres  they  was  comin' — stretched 
out — tails  straight  and  vibratin'. 

u  Well,  'long  about  two  o'clock  I  was 
settin'  up  on  this  here  rock  — " 

"  What  was  you  doin'  there,  Petie  ? " 
said  Bill. 

"Thinkin'." 

"  But  there  was  n't  nothin'  nowheres  in 
sight,  was  there  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  but  that  there  bunch  o'  grass, 
and  just  this  here  one  rock,  and  sand  all 
out  everywheres." 

"  Let  him  alone,  Bill,  let  him  alone. 
He  's  tellin'  it  like  it  was.  Lord,  do  n't 
put  in." 

"  But  what  was  you  doin'  there, 
Petie  ?  " 

"  Just  thinkin',  Bill,  thinkin'.  Perty 
soon  come  a  kind  of  a  breeze  and  blowed 
my  hat  off.  I  was  considerin'  gittin'  it 
when  I  heard  just  a  low  hum,  you  know, 
all  around.  I  looked  up  and  I  seen  it  was 
a  little  misty  away  off  everywhere,  but  I 
did  n't  think  much.  But  it  kept  on  kind 
o'  hummin',  you  know, and  got  louder  and 
real  deep.  And  first  thing  I  knowed  I 
seen  'em.  I  did  n't  know  what  they  was, 


232  COLD   FACTS 

Bill,  for  it  was  just  a  dark  ring  all  round 
the  horizon,  gittin'  bigger.  It  was  roarin' 
now  terrible,  and  comin'  on  and  loomin' 
up.  Then  I  knowed  'em.  I  could  recog 
nize  particular  bellers  amongst  'em." 

"  Was  n't  they  mashin'  each  other  up, 
Petie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mac,  they  was  that.  Just  mashin' 
'em  all  up,  gittin'  so  close,  you  know. 
Why,  it  was  a  wall  o'  steers  comin'. 
Worse  'n  thunder,  too.  I  seen  how  it 
would  end,  for  they  was  furious  and  pushed 
on,  and  I  stood  up.  This  here  rock  cut 
a  big  swath  clean  through  'em,  for  they 
was  solid  long  before  I  seen  'em.  Then 
perty  soon  they  come  together." 

u  Loud  noise  ?  " 

"  Loud  noise,  Bill." 

"  Must  'a'  been  bloody  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  but  blood." 

"  Kill  'em  ?  " 

u  Every  one  of  'em." 

u  How  many  was  they  ?  " 

41  'Bout  a  million — piled  up  terrible.  A 
friend  o'  mine  says  he  was  in  Denver  then, 
and  the  air  durin'  Sunday  and  a  part  o' 
Monday  was  foggy  and  red." 


COLD  FACTS  233 

"Blood?" 

"  Sure.  It  was  rainin'  it  down  here. 
Rattle  'em  up,  Scaps,  rattle  'em  up  !  " 

The  rattling  of  them  up  awoke  him  of 
the  whiskers.  When  they  had  all  drunk, 
Petie  opened  the  door,  turned  about  with 
his  hand  on  his  chin,  gave  them  a  parting 
smile,  and  disappeared.  Jimmy  stiffly 
arose  and  prepared  to  go.  He  too  opened 
the  door  and  paused.  He  turned  with  a 
look  of  unspeakable  contempt  on  his  be- 
whiskered  face. 

"  You  fellers  could  n't  tell  that  was  a 
lie ! "  he  said,  and  slammed  the  door  be 
hind  him 


THE    ABSENCE    OF    NAR- 
CISSO 

¥ 

ALL  the  long  afternoon  the  Mexican 
bridal  party  had  sat  at  the  feast  in 
the  adobe  house  across  the  stream 
from  the  adobe  fort.  Felipa,  the  haughty 
Felipa,  with  her  head  proudly  erect  and 
her  dark  eyes  wandering  from  the  table  to 
the  door  and  from  the  door  to  the  table, 
had  sighed  many  times.  Basilio,  with 
whom  she  had  stood  before  the  altar  in 
Cimarron  in  the  early  morning, — Basilio 
had  rattled  on  in  much  cheap  and  aimless 
talk,  and  was  smiling  weakly.  Basilio  was 
a  small  man  with  a  round  and  originally 
guileless  face,  like  the  face  of  a  cherub. 
But  one  could  surmise  that  the  cherub's 
morals  had  drifted,  for  his  eye  had  acquired 
an  expression  of  cunning,  and  his  lips  be 
tokened  weakness  of  a  complicated  sort. 
Viviana,  the  Maid  of  Honor,  sat  alone 

234 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    235 

beside  Felipa.  She  was  a  little  black- 
eyed  Spanish  girl,  with  a  great  deal  of 
swift  color  coming  and  going  in  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  restless.  There  was 
something  in  Viviana's  manner  indicating 
suppressed  wrath.  It  added  to  her  beauty. 
She  talked  much,  however,  and  kept  her 
feelings  to  herself.  Beside  Basilio  sat  the 
Gentleman  of  Honor,  a  broad,  fierce,  silent 
Mexican,  named  Pinto.  It  was  four 
o'clock. 

"  Another  glass  with  me,  Sefior  Ma- 
cready — now,  now — one  other  glass  with 
me  !  "  said  Viviana,  puckering  up  her  lips 
in  the  archest  of  smiling  entreaties,  and 
holding  the  tiny  goblet  aloft. 

Senor  Macready,  the  only  guest  at  pres 
ent  at  the  table,  sat  opposite.  He  was  a 
tall  cowboy,  very  quiet  and  precise  in  his 
manner,  which  had  something  of  reserve 
in  it.  He  was  fair,  with  high  cheek-bones, 
very  thin  lips,  and  still  blue  eyes. 

"  Enough,  Senorita ;  I  have  had 
enough,"  he  replied,  calmly  surveying 
her  face. 

"  No,  no.  Once  more  for  me,  Sefior 
— for  Viviana  !  " 


236    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

u  Once  more,  then,  for  Viviana." 

Felipa,  the  bride,  swept  her  haughty 
eyes  slowly  from  the  door  to  Macready's 
face.  There  was  an  odd  spot  of  red  high  up 
in  each  cheek.  Otherwise  her  face  was 
darkly  pale.  As  she  spoke  the  spots  of 
red  throbbed  just  slightly. 

"  Senor  Macready,"  she  said  in  a  low 
and  melodious  voice,  speaking  slowly, 
u  what  have  you  heard  of  the  Senor  Nar- 
cisso  ?  " 

Viviana  choked  a  little  with  the  last 
swallow  of  her  wine,  which  perhaps  ac 
counted  for  the  quick  rise  of  her  color. 
Macready,  passing  two  long  fingers  of  one 
hand  slowly  up  and  down  by  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  turned  his  blue  eyes  to  the 
bride.  Felipa  met  his  gaze  with  her  own 
dark  ones. 

u  Narcisso  ?  Narcisso  ?  "  broke  in  the 
weakly  smiling  Basilio,  leaning  over  the 
table.  u  Why,  that  is  so.  Where  in  the 
world  is  he  ?  Narcisso  ought  to  have  come. 
Dear  me !  Why,  I  'm  an  old  friend  of 
Narcisso's." 

"I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Sefiora,"  said 
Macready  slowly,  dropping  his  eyes  and 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    237 

fingering  a  small  cake  by  his  plate.  The 
Sefiora  was  looking  away  at  the  door. 

"  O  these  fickle,  these  fickle  friends !  " 
broke  in  Viviana,  reviving  from  the  chok 
ing,  and  putting  unusual  vehemence  into 
the  adjective.  "  You  men — you  men  !  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  hate,  to  despise,  every 
one  of  you!"  She  smiled  a  swift  smile 
at  Macready  as  she  spoke. 

u  The  men? "  said  Felipa's  low  voice 
slowly.  She  poured  out  just  a  drop  or 
two  of  wine  into  a  glass,  and  one  might 
have  imagined  there  was  a  touch  of  sar 
casm  in  her  tone,  a  touch  augmented  by 
the  poise  of  her  head.  "  The  men?  No, 
Viviana;  ah,  no.  The  men  are  as  true, 
as  true  as  the  mountains,  Viviana." 

"  The  Senora,"  said  Macready,  not  look 
ing  up,  "  is  no  doubt  in  a  position  to 
know." 

"  The  Gentleman  of  Honor  over  there," 
cried  the  sprightly  Viviana,  "  is  n't.  He 
is  n't  true  to  anything  but  the  bottles.  See 
here,  Senor  Pinto,  you  are  too  abominably 
quiet  for  anything.  I  just  simply  won't 
have  it,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 
You  big,  fierce  man!"  smiling  wickedly. 


238    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

"  You  have  n't  said  a  thing  for  three  solid 
hours.  What  are  you  thinking  about?  " 

The  Gentleman  of  Honor  had  also 
been  staring  at  the  door.  He  heaved  a 
deep  sigh. 

"Narcisso,"  he  replied  in  a  voice  so 
deep  it  seemed  to  shake  the  earthen  floor. 
u  You  happened  to  refer  to  Narcisso, 
Senora  Felipa.  Yes,  yes.  I  was  think 
ing  of  Narcisso." 

"  Old  friend  of  mine,"  broke  in  Basilic, 
"old  friend  of  mine.  And  Pinto,  he's 
an  old  friend  of  mine.  I  've  got  more 
friends,  ladies  and  gentlemen — I  've  got 
more  friends  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  And  Macready,  he  's  an  old  friend 
of  mine."  Basilio  grinned  at  the  com 
pany. 

"Don't  drink  any  more,"  said  Felipa 
decisively,  with  the  faintest  turn  of  her 
shoulder  away  from  Basilio. 

"  Narcisso — Narcisso,"  said  Macready 
quietly,  as  though  to  himself,  and  looking 
at  Felipa.  "  Yes,  I  wonder  why  he 
did  n't  come  to  the  feast?  " 

u  Got  into  some  trouble,  I  say,"  was 
Pinto's  deep  bass  reply.  "  Ha,  ha!  "  he 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    239 

laughed  hoarsely;  "  he  's  the  very  devil  of  a 
man,  Narcisso." 

"  Of  course,  gentlemen,  of  course.  Got 
into  some  trouble,"  said  Basilio. 

The  musicians  in  the  corner,  an  ancient 
Indian  and  a  Mexican,  with  a  fiddle  and  a 
guitar,  having  been  for  some  time  silent, 
struck  up  a  Spanish  air.  As  they  did  so, 
Felipa,  who  was  again  watching  the  door, 
gave  a  hardly  noticeable  start.  There  en 
tered  and  approached  the  table  another 
guest,  brushing  the  dust  of  the  prairies  from 
his  shoulders  as  he  came. 

He  was  a  small,  lithe  Mexican,  slender 
and  graceful,  with  many  a  little  swing  to  his 
gait  and  a  manner  affable  in  the  extreme.  In 
spite  of  an  exceeding  restless  brilliancy  of 
small  black  eye  and  the  sweetest  of  affable 
smiles,  there  was  something  old-looking 
about  his  young  face.  He  was  of  a  strange 
pallor  of  countenance,  sickly  looking,  with 
drawn  lines  about  the  smiling  mouth. 
Like  none  other  of  the  men  present,  he 
wore  the  velvet  jacket  and  wide-flapping, 
gaudy  trousers  of  the  Spanish  caballero. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  Montoya  !  "  thundered  the 
deep-voiced  Pinto  in  fiercely  cordial  greet- 


24o    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

ing,  getting  up  and  placing  a  chair  for  the 
newcomer  beside  Macready.  "Sit  down  ! 
sit  down  ! "  The  table  shook  under 
Pinto's  great  hand  as  he  rested  it  upon  it. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  smiling  iMontoya,  stand 
ing  by  the  table  and  bowing  low  to  the 
ladies,  with  his  hand  over  his  heart.  "  Ah 
—  delighted,  delighted!  The  beautiful, 
the  beautiful  Senora  Felipa  —  fairer  than 
the  flowers  —  lovely  as  the  day!  And 
my  old  friend,  Basilic.  Happiness, 
happiness,  happiness  !  And  the  Maid 
of  Honor  —  fair  SenoritaViviana,  ravish 
ing  Viviana  —  ah!  And  the  Gentle 
man  of  Honor  —  ah  !  A  day  to  be  re 
membered  forever.  And  the  gentleman 
here  ;  Senor,  it  seems  I  met  you  once.  I 
remember.  Macready,  is  it  not  ?  Ma 
cready." 

With  many  a  delicate  curve  of  his 
fingers  and  his  hands  and  his  little  old- 
young  body,  the  affable  Senor  Montoya 
took  his  seat. 

u  We  have  just  been  pining  away  mis 
erably,  miserably,  Senor  Montoya,"  cried 
Viviana,  puckering  up  her  lips,  u  because 
you  were  not  here  !  " 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    241 

u  Ah,  the  little  flirt  —  the  exquisite  ac 
tress  !  My  path  lay  over  the  prairies,  fair 
one,  flower  of  the  field  —  over  the  barren 
sands.  A  traveler,  you  know ;  always  a 
traveler !  " 

"  Did  you  —  did  you  meet  any  one  on 
the  barren  sands,  senor  ?  "  inquired 
Felipa,  holding  a  glass  in  mid-air  and 
bending  her  eyes  on  the  little  Mexican. 

u  Meet  any  one  ?  Ha,  ha  !  now  let  me 
see.  Three  Indians  !  Who,  now, 
Sefiora  ?  " 

"  She  means  old  friends  of  ours — any 
old  friends  of  ours,"  said  Basilic.  "  Got 
lots  of  friends  —  every  place  you  know. 
Day  for  good  friends,  you  know,  wedding- 
day.  Montoya  now,  he  's  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  All  of  you  old  friends  of  mine. 
Want  you  all  to  be  good  friends,  you 
know.  Eh,  Montoya  ?  " 

"  There  was  one  of  them  we  were 
talking  about  a  moment  ago,"  said  the 
Gentleman  of  Honor,  swelling  out  his 
great  chest  and  leaning  back.  "  Friend  of 
Basilio's.  Narcisso." 

Macready  turned  his  blue  eyes  to 
Montoya's  face.  Viviana  sipped  wine 


242    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

with  the  pulses  beating  in  her  temples. 
Basilic  smiled  weakly  about.  Felipa, 
with  her  white  face  all  the  more  empha 
sizing  the  two  bright  spots  in  her  cheeks, 
held  her  proud  head  aloft  and  fastened  her 
eyes  on  Montoya. 

Montoya  lifted  a  glass  of  wine  in  his 
small  hand, eyed  the  liquor  carefully,  smiled 
sweetly  upon  the  company,  and  said  : 

"  Narcisso  ?  Ah  —  my  old  friend  Nar- 
cisso.  Has  he  not  come  ?  I  would  have 
thought,  fair  ones,  nothing  beneath  the 
stars  could  have  kept  him  away  !  Delayed, 
no  doubt,  senora,  no  doubt  delayed. " 

u  No  doubt,"  said  Macready  quietly, 
with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  disdain  on 
his  thin  lips  as  he  smiled  back  at  Montoya. 
u  And  you,  senor,you  too  were  delayed  ?  " 

Macready  was  watching  P'elipa's  face, 
though  his  smile  merged  placidly  into  an 
expression  of  repose. 

"  It  is  true,  Senor  Montoya,"  inquired 
the  bride,  with  some  suggestion  of  coldness 
in  her  well-modulated  tones, "  that  you  too 
were  delayed  ?" 

"  Montoya  is  a  flirt ! "  cried  Viviana  with 
passion.  "  Delayed  ?  What  was  she  like, 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    243 

and  what  was  the  color  of  her  eyes,  and 
what  did  her  lips  look  like  ? "  Some  of 
the  suppressed  wrath  was  apparent  as  she 
spoke. 

"The  little  actress  now !  "  ejaculated  the 
smiling  Montoya.  "  The  color  of  her 
eyes  ?  Fair  one,  they  were  as  black  as 
night  and  as  bright  as  the  stars  and  as  deep 
as  the  sea  !  Her  lips,  flower  of  the  field  ? 
Rich  as  the  perfumes  of  Spain.  Like  ? 
Fair  one,  she  is  like  the  angels  with  the 
harps  ;  flower  of  the  field,  like  you,  exactly 
like  you.  And  she  led  me  here,  Senorita, 
as  fast  as  the  prairies  could  travel  beneath 
me!" 

Macready  was  smiling  reservedly  to  him 
self  and  still  watching  the  bride.  Having 
sipped  a  little  more  wine  and  addressed  a 
ceremonious  remark  to  the  cherubic  Basilio, 
he  arose,  bowed  to  the  ladies,  took  his  tall 
form  to  the  door,  and  withdrew. 

Other  guests  straggled  in  at  intervals, 
and  Montoya  nibbled  delicately  at  cakes  and 
sipped  his  liquor  and  kept  up  his  stream  of 
lavish  sociability.  Felipa's  eyes  were  upon 
him  constantly.  A  little  of  the  sarcasm 
hovered  about  her  lips. 


244    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

"  Adios,  fair  ones — till  the  dance  to 
night,"  said  Montoya,  arising  at  last  and 
bending  his  body  in  a  low  bow.  u  I  must 
walk  into  the  air,  down  the  stream,  to 
relax  the  strain  of  a  traveler,  you  know. 
Maid  of  Honor,  may  I  be  dismissed  for  a 
stroll  down  the  stream  ?  " 

When  he  had  gone  Viviana  twisted  her 
forehead  into  many  wrinkles. 

"  I  have  a  very  bad  headache,'*  she  said 
miserably. 

"  You  are  sitting  too  long.  Go  out 
and  walk,"  said  Felipa. 

"  O,  but  it  is  n't  the  custom  !  " 

u  Never  mind  the  custom.  We — we 
would  n't  have  you  suffer,  you  know." 

"  All  good  friends,  you  know — all  good 
friends.  Why,  we  '11  let  you  go,"  said 
Basilio.  "  And  Pinto,  the  Gentleman  of 
Honor  —  he  's  a  good  friend  of  yours. 
He  '11  excuse  you." 

"  Well  now,"  said  the  Gentleman  of 
Honor  in  an  amiable  growl,  "  I  '11  go  with 
her.  Come  on,  Maid  of  Honor;  it  is  n't 
the  custom,  but  it  's  uncommonly  com 
fortable." 

With  one    hand    to   her  forehead,   the 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    245 

other  on  the  huge  arm  of  the  Gentleman 
of  Honor,  and  a  pitiable  expression  of 
much  nervous  weariness  on  her  face,  Viv- 
iana  withdrew. 

The  headache  having  brought  her  and 
her  companion  among  the  low  willows  to 
a  great  bowlder  several  hundred  yards  down 
the  stream,  it  led  them  to  the  other  side 
of  it.  Sefior  Montoya  was  sitting  there 
by  the  water's  edge  looking  pensively  at 
the  ripples.  The  Maid  of  Honor  lost  no 
time  in  breaking  into  a  passion  and  stamp 
ing  her  small  foot  with  great  vehemence. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  end  of  it !  "  she  cried. 
"  This  is  a  beautiful — oh,  a  beautiful  end 
of  it !  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter 
with  you  all  ?  " 

"  Now,  now,"  said  the  affable  Montoya, 
his  affability  wearing  something  of  hag- 
gardness,  "  do  n't  let  the  Senorita  get  car 
ried  away  with  herself.  Be  more  quiet. 
Let  the  Maid  of  Honor  be  more  calm  !  " 

The  huge  Pinto  leaned  against  the  rock 
with  an  ill  expression  of  countenance,  and 
let  the  Maid  of  Honor  fight  it  out. 

"  But  where  is  Narcisso,  and  where  are 
the  horses,  and  the  firing  of  pistols,  and 


246    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

the  tearing  away  —  and  all  the  beautiful 
plan  ?  "  The  Sefiorita's  face  showed  all 
varieties  of  Spanish  color. 

u  Coming,  my  dear,  coming." 

u  Coming  ?  "  to  the  last  degree  exaspe 
rated.  u  Coming!  Well,  the  heavens  help 
us,  what  good  are  they  going  to  do  now?  " 

u  Carry  her  away,  my  beloved ;  what 
else  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  And  married  already  !  " 

u  Now,  you  pretty  little  flower  of  the 
field,  what  difference  is  it  to  Narcisso  ? 
Never  will  it  bother  his  head.  Married  ? 
Ha,  ha  !  —  why,  bless  your  sweet  cheeks, 
I  was  one  time  married  myself.  For  thirty- 
three  minutes,  Senorita  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  you  little 
rascal,  you  deceiver — do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Narcisso  is  coming  yet  ?  " 

"  To-night,  flower  of  the  field." 

u  You  are  lying  to  me  !  ' 

"  You  are  beautiful  in  a  passion,  fair 
one.  If  you  were  to  put  your  little  car 
to  the  ground,  you  would  hear  the  tread  of 
his  charger's  feet." 

"  But  what  will  he  do  when  he  gets 
here  ?  I  do  n't  believe  it  !  " 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    247 

"  There,  there,  little  one  ;  you  go  run 
ning  away  with  yourself.  Do  ?  Dios  ! 
beloved,  what  do  you  expect  him  to  do  ? 
Narcisso  will  carry  off  the  bride  —  what 
else  ?  And  I  —  I,  most  beautiful  Senorita, 
Maid  of  Honor,  just  as  the  plans  were 
laid  long  ago  —  I  will  carry  you  off!  " 

"  This  is  a  mess  !  "  broke  in  the  deep 
voice  of  Pinto,  as  he  looked  fiercely  at 
Montoya.  "  This  is  a  sweet  mess  !  " 

"  A  mess,  Senor  ? "  replied  Montoya, 
the  lines  about  his  mouth  drawn  a  little 
more,  perhaps.  "  What  difference  is  it 
to  you,  Senor  ?  You  will  get  your  money, 
my  excellent  friend.  Your  services  are 
good,  my  excellent  friend." 

Montoya  was  sitting  eyeing  the  Maid 
of  Honor,  with  a  smile  of  much  sweetness 
playing  over  his  features,  and  the  angry 
Viviana  was  on  the  point  of  breaking 
forth  once  more,  when  Macready  walked 
leisurely  round  the  corner  of  the  rock. 
He  was  alternately  stretching  and  relaxing 
his  thin  lips  over  his  teeth,  and  deftly 
rolling  a  cigarette  in  his  long  ringers.  His 
blue  eyes  rested  placidly  on  the  tobacco. 
Viviana  started  back  against  the  rock. 


248    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

"Ah,"  said  Montoya,  the  smile  being 
abated ;  u  you  have  listened,  Sefior  ? 
Cowards  listen,  Senor." 

u  What  in  the  devil  are  you  prowling 
around  here  for  ?  "  thundered  the  bristling 
Pinto. 

Macready  quietly  finished  rolling  his 
cigarette  and  lighted  it.  When  he  was 
puffing  smoke  into  the  air,  he  turned  his 
eyes  on  Montoya. 

"  I  am  ready,  Senor,"  he  said,  "  to  hear 
the  rest  of  it,  now." 

Viviana  was  holding  her  breath,  the 
color  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks. 
Montoya's  black  eyes  stared  at  Macready. 

"  Which  side  are  you  on,  Senor  Ma 
cready  ?  " 

"  Either  side,"  said  Macready,  with  a  re 
served  laugh.  He  turned  to  Viviana.  "The 
Maid  of  Honor,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
sarcasm.  u  I  can  say,  Senors  and  Senorita,  I 
had  at  one  time  imagined  I  had  some  feeling 
for  the  Maid  of  Honor."  He  quietly  took 
his  cigarette  from  his  lips  and  pushed  the 
ashes  from  it  with  his  little  finger.  "  But," 
he  continued,  smiling  slightly,  u  I  imagine 
it  no  more.  For  Basilio  I  have  perhaps 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    249 

some  little  feeling.  And,  by  the  way, — " 
he  puffed  a  little  at  the  cigarette  and 
rubbed  his  fingers  up  and  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth, — u  I  should  like — it  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  stop  the  Senorita." 

Montoya  sat  long  in  silence,  watching 
the  cowboy  and  meditating.  Finally  he 
seemed  to  have  come  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said  to  Macready. 
"  Come  !  Down  the  stream  here  ;  we  talk 
about  it.  You  go  on  that  way.  I  will 
say  a  thing  to  the  Senorita."  Macready 
sauntered  down  the  stream. 

"  This  is  beautiful  now,  is  n't  it?  "  cried 
Viviana. 

UA  devil  of  a  mess!"  growled  Pinto. 

41  Hush,  beautiful  one,"  whispered  the 
smiling  Montoya,  bending  in  a  low  bow 
to  the  Senorita,  speaking  rapidly  and  with 
much  elegance  of  expression.  "Come; 
go  back  to  the  bride.  Tell  her  that  we 
have  had  a  very  great  accident  on  the 
road,  which  kept  the  Senor  Narcisso  till 
night,  when  he  would  have  been  here 
early  in  the  morning.  Tell  her  I,  Mon 
toya,  greet  her  as  ambassador,  minister — 
ha,  ha! — minister  of  every  kind  of  affairs 


25o    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

from  Narcisso,  and  that  he  is  coming — 
coming,  you  hear?  And  tell  her — hist!  — 
tell  her  that  the  fact  that  she  is  not  any 
more  the  Seiiorita,  that  she  is  the  Senora 
of  my  dear  friend  Basilio — hist ! — it  makes 
not  any  damn  difference!  Go  with  her, 
Pinto;  go  back.  They  will  notice.  I  will 
attend  to  this  gentleman  of  the  long  fingers, 
fair  one.  Go,  flower  of  the  field,  go!  " 

Pinto  and  the  Maid  of  Honor  departed, 
and,  smiling  sweetly,  Montoya  followed 
the  tall  cowboy,  and  took  his  arm  with 
much  graciousness. 

u  Senor,"  he  said,  u  keep  yourself  calm. 
Hist!— it  is  a  lie!" 

"  Ah,"  said  Macready,  "  which — which 
part?  " 

"  Basilio's  wedding." 

«  A  lie,  eh?  " 

"  We  arranged  it  very  long  before,  Ba 
silio  and  I.  These  people  do  not  know  it, 
the  Gentleman  and  the  Maid  of  Honor.  I 
might  as  well  tell  you,  for  you  are  the 
good  friend  of  my  old  friend  Basilio.  No 
wedding,  no  license,  no  justice.  We  have 
a  man  in  Cimarron  to  say  the  words — a 
cowboy  like  you,  Senor." 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO   251 

"Well,  what  is  it  for?" 

"  Hist!  Felipa's  father  makes  her  marry 
Basilic.  If  not,  she  gets  no  five  hundred 
dollars,  which  he  will  give  to  Basilic.  He 
thinks  there  is  nobody  like  Basilio.  Hist! 
Basilic  and  Felipa  have  me  to  arrange  the 
wedding,  and  I  fix  up  the  lie.  Then  we 
three  divide  the  money.  They  come  driv 
ing,  driving  home,  and  Narcisso,  cowboys 
with  him,  horses,  pistols — whist! — takes 
the  girl!  Now  listen,  Senor."  He  was 
watching  Macready's  face  with  much 
intensity.  "  There  has  been  a  mistake. 
There  is  delay.  An  accident  keeps  Nar 
cisso  away  so  that  he  cannot  come  till 
to-night.  But  he  will  come.  So,  you  see, 
Basilio  is  not  any  poor  fool." 

u  Hm,"  said  Macready,  "  glad  you  told 
me  all  that.  Very  interesting.  With  his 
cowboys,  eh?  I  have  a  number  of  cow 
boys  myself — horses  —  pistols.  Senor 
Montoya,  I  am  not  particularly  pleased. 
I  still  think,  Senor,  that  even  if  Basilio  is 
not  any  poor  fool,"  he  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  cigarette — "  I  should  like  to  stop 
the  Senorita." 

Montoya's   restless   eyes   were  shifting 


252    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

from  the  face  of  Macready  to  the  stream 
and  back  again.  He  was  silent  for  some 
time,  apparently  thinking  with  intense  ra 
pidity. 

"  Senor,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  What  is  it  now?  " 

u  There  is  another  lie,  too." 

"  Hm — only  one  more?  " 

"  It  is  this,  Seiior — Hist!  Narcisso  is 
not  coming!"  His  keen  eyes  were  on 
Macready 's  face. 

Macready  puffed  and  returned  the  gaze. 

"  No,"  continued  Montoya,  speaking 
quickly,  the  haggard  look  about  the  mouth 
more  plainly  defined.  "  Observe.  Felipa 
is  deceived." 

u  Is  any  one  coming  for  her,  then?  " 

u  Quien  sabe,  Senor?  quien  sabe?  Hist! 
— be  not  so  afraid  I  will  run  away  with 
the  Maid  of  Honor.  Maybe — I  do  not 
know,  but  maybe — she  is  stopped  already. 
Perhaps  I  am  not  so  madly  in  love  with 
the  Sefiorita.  Leave  it  to  me,  Seiior,  leave 
it  to  me!  " 

u  Then  where  is  Narcisso?" 

"  Delayed,  Sefior,  delayed." 

u  I   will   say  this   much  and   go,"   said 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    253 

Macready.  "  Lies,  eh?  Yes,  I  should 
judge  so.  There  is  no  possible  way  of 
believing  you,  Senor,  so  I  believe  nothing. 
I  wait  and  see.  You  may  be  right,  but, 
observe,  Senor  Montoya,  I  will  be  ready. 
I,  too,  have  cowboys.  Several  can  be  in 
the  same  trouble.  Adios,  my  friend — A 
mas  ver/"  Macready  cast  his  cigarette 
into  the  stream  and  went  back  to  the 
fort. 

At  half-past  seven  the  bridal  procession 
had  wound  its  way  from  the  house  of  the 
feast,  across  the  stream,  to  the  adobe 
dance-hall  by  the  fort.  There  were  many 
cowboys  about,  both  without  and  within, 
and  much  saddling  of  horses  in  the  dusk. 
The  dance-hall  was  small,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  it  save  a  few  lamps  and 
low  wooden  benches  about  the  wall, 
and  at  one  end  a  very  high  stool  for  the 
master  of  the  dances.  The  walls  and  floor 
were  earthern.  A  Spanish  dance  was 
struck  up  and  the  festivities  began. 

"  With  the  beautiful  Senorita,  Maid  of 
Honor,  beauty  of  Spain,  I  shall  have  the 
first  dance! "  cried  Montoya.  "  Come 
away,  fair  one,  flower  of  the  field!  " 


254    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

"  O,  Senor,  the  custom,  Senor!  I  dance 
first  with  the  Gentleman  of  Honor." 

u  Custom?  Bah  !  not  any.  Ha,  ha! 
The  Gentleman  of  Honor  will  excuse  the 
beautiful,  the  Senorita — for  a  traveler?  " 

The  Gentleman  of  Honor,  with  an  air 
of  great  grandeur,  waved  the  two  aside  and 
excused  the  Senorita.  The  little  Mexi 
can  whirled  away  with  her.  With  little 
grace  and  but  passive  enjoyment  the  cherub 
swung  the  bride  away.  The  tall  Macready 
carried,  as  it  were,  a  little  hybrid  girl 
about.  The  numerous  friends  and  rela 
tives  found  themselves  partners  and  joined 
in.  Fiddle  and  guitar  ran  an  unbridled 
race,  with  the  old  Indian  beating  his  heavy 
foot  rythmically  upon  the  floor. 

Montoya's  eyes  were  brilliantly  restless. 
His  small  visage  wore  the  customary  pallor 
of  his  bloodless  skin ;  something  like 
haggardness  again  hovered  about  the 
mouth.  But  there  was  the  same  smile 
still. 

"  The  dance  !  the  dance  !  the  dance  !  " 
he  cried  in  the  middle  of  it,  swinging  his 
body  into  exquisite  curves  and  gliding 
back  and  forth  and  up  and  down  among 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    255 

the  moving  company  with  the  blushing 
Senorita.  "  Beloved,  I  am  carried  away  ! 
Ah,  the  Senor  Macready  —  calm  as  ever, 
tall  as  ever,  superior  Macready !  Basilio 
—  my  old  friend  Basilio  !  And  the  Senora, 
the  beautiful  Senora  !  " 

The  second  dance  was  a  waltz.  Before 
it  Macready  observed  Felipa  standing  in 
the  corner  with  Montoya  before  her,  the 
latter  talking  rapidly.  Felipa's  face  was 
whiter  still,  and  the  lips  were  pressed 
tightly  together.  The  small  red  spots  on 
her  cheeks  were  brilliant.  Macready  was 
struck  with  a  certain  look  of  daring  that 
had  come  over  her  face. 

"  Heavens  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  u  look 
at  that  girl !  Like  a  panther.  She  's  ready 
for  anything." 

He  approached  her.  Her  eyes  seemed 
unusually  wide.  They  were  slowly  sweep 
ing  the  company  and  the  three  small  win 
dows  as  she  listened  to  Montoya. 

"  Let  me  have  the  waltz  ?  "  said  Ma 
cready. 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  smiling  Montoya, 
breaking  in  suddenly,  "just  asking  for  it 
myself.  Beg  a  thousand  pardons,  Senor, 


256   ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

but    I    couldn't    give    her  up  —  the  fair 
Senora  !  " 

A  look  of  some  disdain  came  over 
Felipa's  features.  She  smiled  slightly  to 
Macready. 

u  You  must  excuse  me,"  she  said. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Macready,  calmly 
walking  away. 

"  You  should  dance  with  the  Gentle 
man  of  Honor  next,  Senora,"  growled 
Pinto,  coming  up.  "The  custom,  you 
know." 

"Ah  —  custom,  custom!  what  is  it? 
The  Gentleman  of  Honor  will  excuse  a 
traveler — just  for  the  once  !  " 

The  dance  was  already  beginning,  and 
Montoya,  with  his  arm  about  the  bride, 
waltzed  away. 

u  He  's  carrying  things  mighty  high," 
growled  Pinto  fiercely, — u  mighty  high  !  " 

To  rid  his  huge  body  of  the  heat  of  the 
room  Pinto  stepped  outside  the  door.  The 
breath  of  the  night  fanned  his  face.  Be 
neath  the  shadow  of  some  willows  at  a 
distance  down  the  stream  a  shifting  of 
vague  forms  might  have  told  of  horses 
saddled  and  cowboys  lying  by  the  water. 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    257 

Under  the  stars  the  silent  plain  stretched 
miles  and  miles  away  between  the  mesas, 
and  straight  down  the  middle  of  it  lay  the 
trail  that  led  into  the  desert. 

Montoya  was  still  waltzing  with  the 
bride.  Basilio's  arm  encircled  the  delicate 
waist  of  the  Maid  of  Honor.  Macready 
and  the  other  cowboys  and  Mexicans 
were  gliding  about,  Macready's  calm  gaze 
constantly  following  Montoya.  The  little 
Mexican's  eyes  were  shifting  quickly  from 
those  of  Felipa  to  the  three  windows.  His 
smile  was  there  as  always,  but  he  was 
talking  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Ah,  Senora  !  to  be  with  thee  !  " 

"  I  insist  that  you  cease  to  talk  to  me 
so,  Sefior,"  she  replied  haughtily;  u  and  tell 
me  when,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  he  is  com 
ing.  I  will  not  stand  this  much  longer." 

"  Have  patience, my  love,  have  patience. 
The  noble,  the  excellent  Narcisso  lets 
nothing  stop  him.  He  is  coming." 

"  Montoya,  there  is  something  wrong 
in  this — it  is  n't  going  right.  Some  of  us 
will  be  killed." 

"  Patience,  beloved.  Killed  ?  Ha  ! 
Who  cares,  Sefiora  ?  No,  no.  Not  Nar- 


258   ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

cisso."  There  was  a  strange  light  in  his 
eyes  as  he  fastened  them  on  her  and 
smiled.  u  And  who  would  not  risk  it — 
for  these,  these  eyes  ?  Ah,  Sefiora,  who 
would  not  risk  it !  And  the  cheek,  Sefiora, 
and  the  lips — ah,  the  ravishing  lips !  Dios ! 
it  would  make  any  man  mad — mad!  Hist! 
Sefiora;  I  could  swing  you  away — myself!" 
The  deftness  of  speech  was  not  abated,  nor 
the  air  of  affability  ;  but  the  eyes  on  hers 
were  glittering.  The  Sefiora  loosened 
herself  a  little  in  his  clasp  and  looked  at 
him  scornfully. 

"  How  is  he  going  to  get  me  away — tell 
me  quick  !  I  must  be  ready.  Sefior  Mon- 
toya,  I  hate  your  eyes  !  Look  at  me  no 
more.  I  think,  Sefior,  you  lie  !  " 

"  And  the  color  of  the  forehead — mad 
dening  !  And  the  delicate  form,  and  the 
dainty  feet !  Sefiora,  you  are  beautiful  as 
no  one  else  is  beautiful!  " 

The  waltz  was  taking  a  slightly  faster 
turn,  and  the  fiddle  and  the  guitar  were 
beating  away  in  swifter  rhythm.  The 
lights  danced  before  Felipa's  eyes.  Mon- 
toya's'  colorless  face  was  close  to  hers. 
She  could  not  free  herself. 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    259 

"  Listen,  Senora ;  I  am  a  wanderer ; 
the  night  is  my  home — the  mountains  are 
my  friends — the  stars  are  my  people. 
Senora,  I  am  alone !  I  am  mad  with  it, 
the  being  alone.  Hist !  I  see  these  eyes, 
the  cheek,  the  lips,  the  forehead,  the  hair, 
— ah,  Senora,  I  become  in  a  fever.  The 
night,  the  mountains,  the  stars — they  are 
hell !  Beautiful  one — I,  Montoya,  the 
traveler — I  love  you  !  " 

The  girl  caught  her  breath  in  a  gasp, 
and  tried  to  wrench  from  his  arms,  but 
he  held  her.  He  was  still  smiling  and 
speaking  under  his  breath. 

"  No,  no — do  not  go  away  yet,  Senora. 
What  if  I  tell  you  I  can  take  you  away  as 
well  as  Narcisso  ?  Listen,  Senora — better 
than  Narcisso  !  " 

"  Then  he  is  not  coming  !  "  cried  the 
girl.  "  You  liar  !  you  fiend  !  He  is  not 
coming!  " 

u  The  bright,  the  intelligent  Felipa. 
Ah,  a  mind  like  the  face — beautiful,  beau- 
ful  !  The  time  is  here — the  horses  are 
coming ;  hist !  the  guns  !  But  as  for  Nar 
cisso,  Senora  — " 

With  a  quick  scream  Felipa  tore  herself 


260   ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

from  him,  darted  across  to  the  opposite 
wall,  and  stood  defiantly  with  her  back 
against  it,  her  eyes  flashing.  The  dancers 
stopped  in  sudden  confusion,  and  the  fiddle 
and  the  guitar  broke  abruptly  off.  Mon- 
toya  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  meet 
ing  the  general  gaze  with  the  affable  smile, 
his  eyes  shining.  There  was  a  second's 
intense  silence.  The  next  instant  the 
sound  of  galloping  hoofs  echoed  upon  the 
prairie  trail,  and  Pinto's  great  form  burst 
into  the  door. 

"  Narcisso!  "  he  yelled  in  a  voice  of 
thunder.  u  Ready,  men!  It  is  Narcisso!  " 

With  a  shout  Montoya's  lithe  figure 
leaped  toward  the  Senora.  He  had 
whipped  out  a  revolver,  and,  pointing  it  at 
the  ceiling,  fired  three  shots,  as  a  signal, 
through  the  roof.  Pinto  seized  the  tall 
stool  and  with  one  blow  dashed  it  in  pieces 
against  the  wall.  In  a  second  he  was 
armed  with  one  of  its  legs,  and,  swinging 
it  about  his  head,  dashed  for  the  door. 

But  Macready  and  three  others  were  too 
quick  for  the  Mexicans.  Montoya,  with 
his  arm  about  the  girl's  waist  and  almost 
carrying  her,  was  already  stopped  short. 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    261 

Pinto  was  brought  up  by  a  powerful  blow 
upon  the  head  from  Macready's  fist,  before 
his  club  had  had  time  to  execute  its  work. 
Most  of  the  men  took  sides  immediately, 
the  women  huddling  together  at  the  far 
side  of  the  room.  In  a  moment  more 
there  would  have  been  a  general  fight. 

"Stop!  Stop!  "  cried  the  Senora.  Ex 
erting  all  her  strength,  she  wrenched  her 
self  once  again  from  the  arms  of  Montoya, 
and,  darting  to  the  center  of  the  room, 
stood  like  a  tigress  at  bay.  "  Hold  the 
door!  Keep  Montoya!  I  will  not  go  one 
step!  The  fiend !  Well  done,  Senor 
Macready!  All  of  you  cowards,  come  on! 
Bar  the  door!  Down  with  them — down 
with  them!  " 

The  galloping  of  horses  had  ceased,  and 
there  was  a  great  shout  without.  The 
three  small  windows  were  suddenly  broken 
in  with  a  crash.  Montoya  turned  about, 
and  was  starting  for  one  of  these  new 
openings,  when  the  great  Gentleman  of 
Honor,  quickly  comprehending  the  new 
turn  affairs  had  taken,  a  turn  which  Mac- 
ready  himself  was  just  beginning  to  un 
derstand,  caught  the  little  Mexican  from 


262    ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

behind  with  his  long  arms  and  swiftly  pin 
ioned  him  against  the  wall;  the  bewildered 
Maid  of  Honor,  in  a  passion,  meanwhile 
doing  her  best,  with  teeth  and  nails,  to 
loosen  his  grip. 

Macready  and  the  cowboys  immediately 
leaped  to  the  windows,  such  as  had  no 
weapons  arming  themselves  with  the  frag 
ments  of  the  stool.  The  heads  of  several 
who  would  have  entered  from  without  re 
ceived  blows  of  no  indecisive  force.  A 
scramble  ensued  at  each  window.  Ma 
cready  was  leaning  far  out  of  one,  strug 
gling  with  some  unseen  opponent.  At 
this  moment  there  was  a  counter-rush  of 
horses'  feet  on  the  trail,  a  short  scuffle, 
many  curses  and  random  shots,  and  a  dash 
ing  retreat. 

The  cherubic  Basilio  stood  nerveless 
against  the  wall,  a  pitiable  smile  on  his 
weak  features.  Macready  turned  calmly 
about  and  cast  his  blue  eyes  over  the  com 
pany.  The  disgraceful  scene  having  ar 
rived  at  something  of  a  standstill,  the  Maid 
of  Honor  ceased  her  attacks  upon  the  now 
violently  enangered  Pinto,  and  the  Gentle 
man  of  Honor,  weary  of  the  struggle,  let 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    263 

the  desperate  Montoya  loose.  Felipa,  her 
great  eyes  dilating,  was  standing,  white  and 
silent,  against  the  wall. 

Montoya  stepped  calmly  to  the  center 
of  the  room,  deftly  brushed  the  dust  of  the 
wall  from  his  velvet  jacket,  and  swept  the 
company  slowly  with  his  eyes.  His  face 
was  a  little  more  drawn  and  the  eyes  a 
little  more  glittering;  but  as  he  gazed  about, 
the  sweet,  sweet  smile  broke  over  his  pal 
lid  features. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  bowing  gracefully.  u  It 
was  very  excellently  done.  Senora,  it  was 
beautiful,  beautiful.  And  the  Senor  Ma- 
cready — wonderful !  You  all  have  it  so 
well  made  up.  And  the  Gentleman  of 
Honor — ah  !  And  the  Maid  of  Honor — 
ah  !  There  is  just  one  thing  I  should  like 
to  say.  You  will  let  me  step  to  the  door — 
a  traveler,  you  know;  here  by  the  door? 
I  will  do  some  talking  now." 

They  would  have  stopped  him,  but 
Macready  interfered. 

u  Let  him  go,  let  him  go,"  said  the  cow 
boy.  "  You  can't  do  anything." 

"  Ah,  thank  you,  Sefior — thank  you.  I 
only  go  just  here,  Sefior,  to  the  door,  till 


264   ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO 

I  have  said  something.  Now,  look  you, 
all  of  you.  Narcisso  did  not  get  the  girl — 
ah,  no ;  and  why  ?  Because,  Sefiors — 
look  at  her  there,  the  beautiful  Senora,  the 
daring  Senora — because  I,  Montoya,  love 
her  myself!  Is  Montoya  into  this  affair, 
my  friends,  for  his  health  ?  Is  he  carrying 
away  the  beautiful  Senora  for  somebody 
else  ?  Not  at  all,  Senors.  Hist !  Where 
is  Narcisso  ?  Look  you — I  hate  Narcisso  ! 
I  think,  shall  he  have  the  beautiful  one  ? 
No,  no.  I  show  you  now,  before  I  go, 
that  I  am  not  so  much  a  fool.  I  show 
you,  too,  flower  of  the  field,  Maid  of 
Honor,  that  you  are  not  for  me.  I  show 
you,  too,  Senora,  the  beautiful,  the  beloved 
Senora,  that  if  I  do  not  have  you  myself, 
I  see  that  nobody  else  has  you.  Do  not 
look  for  Narcisso.  Do  not  look  for  Ba- 
silio.  You  yourself  know,  and  you  may 
tell  it  to  the  company  when  I  have  gone, 
why  my  old  friend  Basilio  is  no  husband 
of  yours.  I,  too,  know  it,  Senora,  for  I 
am  the  excellent  confidant  of  Basilio.  But 
look  you,  daring  one,  you  thought  that  I, 
Montoya,  was  working  for  the  money.  A 
curse  upon  the  money,  Senora  —  no, 


ABSENCE  OF  NARCISSO    265 

Senorita ! — a  curse  upon  the  money !  Who 
was  it  made  my  excellent  friend  Basilio 
turn  away  from  the  fair  Felipa  and  take 
the  money  instead  ?  I,  I,  Montoya.  And 
as  for  Narcisso ;  look  you,  my  friends,  he 
had  me  to  carry  away  the  beautiful  one 
for  him.  But  before  I  came —  " — he  was 
caressing  the  revolver  and  holding  it  ready 
and  backing  nearer  to  the  door — "  before 
I  came,  Senors,  I  arranged  it  with  Nar 
cisso.  You  will  find  him  away,  away, 
beneath  the  stars — away  on  the  desert 
sands.  It  was  for  her  who  stands  there 
so  beautiful,  so  daring  now.  The  night 
was  still,  the  coyotes  were  crying  over  the 
mesas,  the  moon  was  dead.  And  so, 
Senors,  remember  this  of  Montoya — he 
killed  Narcisso.  I  have  not  yet  the  girl ; 
but  never  mind ;  another  time,  perhaps. 
A  mas  ver,  Senor  Macready.  You  are  of 
deep  mind.  Beloved  one,  beautiful  Felipa, 
Adios  !  Farewell,  flower  of  the  field,  fare 
well  !  " 

Before  they  had  understood  his  meaning 
or  come  from  under  the  control  of  his 
shining  eyes,  he  was  gone,  and  a  second 
later  the  gallop  of  his  horse's  feet  echoed 
away  into  the  night. 


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PRESS  FOR  H.  S.  STONE  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


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pATALOGUE • OF • BOOKS 
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Chicago 


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MDCCCXCVII 


MESSRS.  HERBERT  S.  STONE  & 
COMPANY  TAKE  PLEASURE  IN 
ANNOUNCING  THE  FOLLOWING 
PUBLICATIONS  AS  IN  PREPARA 
TION: 

The  next  novel  by  Harold  Frederic, 

Author  of  "The  Damnation  of  Theron 
Ware." 

*'  Dross,"  a  novel  by  Henry  Seton  Merriman. 
Author  of  u  The  Sowers,"  etc. 

And  new  books  by  George  Ade,  author  of 
"  Artie,"  and  Henry  M.  Blossom,  Jr., 
Author  of  "Checkers." 

Further  particulars  will  be  given  later. 


LONDON  OFFICE:  10  NORFOLK  ST., STRAND. 
CABLE  ADDRESSES  : 

"  CHAPBOOK,  CHICAGO." 
"  CHAPBOOK,   NEW  YORK." 
"  EDITORSHIP,  LONDON." 


March,  mdcccxcvii 

THE  PUBLICATIONS  OF 
HERBERT  S.  STONE 
&  CO.  THE  CHAP-BOOK 

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Ade,  George. 

ARTIE:     A  Story  of  the  Streets  and  of  the 
Town.      With  many  pictures  by  JOHN  T. 

McCuTCHEON.       l6mo.      $1.25. 

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at  heart,  and  Mamie  Carroll  is  the  <  making  of 
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Evening  Journal, 

Benham,  Charles. 

THE  FOURTH  NAPOLEON:  A  Romance. 
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Blossom,  Henry  M.,  Jr. 

CHECKERS  :  A  Hard-Luck  Story.  By 
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EPISCOPO  AND  COMPANY.  Translated 
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7 


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Hichens,  Robert. 

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8 


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Kinross,  Albert. 

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Moore,  F.  Frankfort. 

THE    IMPUDENT    COMEDIAN     AND 
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12 


Morrison,  Arthur. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  JAGO.  By  the  author 
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$1.50.  Second  edition . 

*^*This,  the  first  long  story  which  Mr.  Morrison 
has  written,  is,  like  his  remarkable  "Tales  of 
Mean  Streets,"  a  realistic  study  of  East  End  life. 

"The  power  and  art  of  the  book  are  beyond 
question." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  notable  books  of  the 
year." — Chicago  Daily  Neivs. 

"'A  Child  of  the  Jago'  will  prove  one  of  the 
immediate  and  great  successes  of  the  season." — 
Boston  Times. 

"  Since  Daniel  Defoe,  no  such  consummate 
master  of  realistic  fiction  has  arisen  among  us  as 
Mr.  Arthur  Morrison.  Hardly  any  praise  could 
be  too  much  for  the  imaginative  power  and  artis 
tic  perfection  and  beauty  of  this  picture  of  the  de 
praved  and  loathsome  phases  of  human  life. 
There  is  all  of  Defoe's  fidelity  of  realistic  detail, 
suffused  with  the  light  and  warmth  of  a  genius 
higher  and  purer  than  Defoe's." — Scotsman. 

"It  more  than  fulfills  the  promise  of  'Tales  of 
Mean  Streets' — it  makes  you  confident  that  Mr. 
Morrison  has  yet  better  work  to  do.  The  power 
displayed  is  magnificent,  and  the  episode  of  the 
murder  of  Weech, '  fence  '  and  '  nark,'  and  of  the 
capture  and  trial  of  his  murderer,  is  one  that 
stamps  itself  upon  the  memory  as  a  thing  done 
once  and  for  all.  Perrott  in  the  dock,  or  as  he 
awaits  the  executioner,  is  a  fit  companion  of  Fagin 
condemned.  The  book  cannot  but  confirm  the 
admirers  of  Mr.  Morrison's  remarkable  talent  in 
the  opinions  they  formed  on  reading  'Tales  of 
Mean  Streets.'  "— Black  and  White. 

'3 


B 


M513161 


£S3 

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THE  SEVEN  BOOKHUNTERS 

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